


The Sun

by Faye (FayeA), FayeA



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Dorne, Drama, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Stark - Freeform, Lady - Freeform, OC, Old Gods, Pregnant, Queen - Freeform, dornish woman, southern
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-01-08 07:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 57,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12249867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayeA/pseuds/Faye, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayeA/pseuds/FayeA
Summary: Larys Cassel was cursed. Or was it blessed? The lines blur and the Gods have no mercy- for the greater good sacrifices must be made. Larys and Jon, Jon and Larys, husband and wife, lovers. The Dornish maiden and the Northern bastard.Lord and Lady of the Gift, no matter what pulls them apart, no matter the trials they each must face, their love binds them together in a burning chain that stretches over lands uncharted, unmeasured.Gods and men, mothers and sons, wives and husbands, Larys and Jon Stark will fight whatever comes there way, even if, in the end, they lose.~And into her Jon poured all his rage, rage because he loved her, loved her with a burning, defiant fire he could not put out for the life of him. Rage because in all her maleficence, she held his heart aloft in her blood-stained hands.~





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I own none of GRRM's work. Any original characters however, are my own.  
> This is a blend of Game of Thrones and A song of Ice and Fire, as I find it restrictive to bind myself to one.  
> WARNING- graphic scenes of violence, murder, betrayal, all the usual GOT/ASOIAF stuff.  
> This story can also be found under the same title on Fanfiction.net : https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12456530/1/  
> Please read and enjoy! I would absolutely love to hear your opinions, so please comment :)  
> Faye

**Larys**    **Larys**

** Prologue **

Larys Cassel had spent the last eight years of her life at the Water Gardens. A skinny, coltish girl, with a head of curls black as ink and eyes even blacker, had arrived in Dorne to live with her mother's family for a while. Amongst the flailing limbs and kicking feet of so many children, no one took notice of her. She was not particularly remarkable to look at, unless it was the remarks of other mothers that she'd be a pretty one, as soon as her body caught up with her arms and legs.

And caught up they had. She grew to be a beautiful young woman, creamy tan skin a shade paler than the golden hues of the other girls, with silken curls tumbling down her back, eyes large and shining, lips full and red, and curves to send any man reeling. Now, the other mothers eyed her bosom and wide hips and remarked on what a perfect wife she'd make for their son. Rather, a perfect brood mare.

But the women and their sons were to be disappointed, for a raven had arrived, from the North. There lay the wishes of a family to see her again, in their home at Winterfell. Larys did not mind, she had been born in the North, and though her mother had been Dornish, her father, Rodrik Cassel, was a Northman through and through. Dorne was beautiful, with its warm weather, delicious food, and glorious sand-steeds, but it was not home. Not to her.

The morning of her departure came swift. She had said goodbye to the few friends she had the day before, although they were not the sort you missed much, and now stood beside her sand-steed mare, a leaving gift from her very rich merchant uncle, and kissed each of her tiny cousins farewell.

"Why do you have to go?" whined little Elia, fists clenching the skirt of Larys' dress. "The North is cold and full of monsters!"

Elmar, a blue-eyed boy of three, waved around a stick in his chubby fist.

"I'll defend you! I'll come with you and beat all those smelly savages!" he roared.

"Elia! What have you been teaching him?", she exclaimed, before bending over, gently detaching her hand. "I'm as much Northern as I am Dornish, so unless you are calling  _me_  a savage, both of you should act like the knight and lady you are. Otherwise, all I will remember of you both is two children acting like babies."

They looked at her stricken.

"No, you aren't a savage!"

"I am  _not_  a bab-"

Larys laughed and swooped down to kiss them both.

"I know darlings, you'll both be absolutely perfect for me, and you're parents, won't you?"

The nodded firmly, chests puffed like robins, bravely holding back tears now they realised she really was going.

She moved to her Aunt Anya, who embraced her and wished her the best of luck, and came to her uncle. Efran stood tall, dark hair pulled into a knot, his face lined and comely, but sad.

"Sweet Larys," he murmured. "You look so much like you're mother."

"I am glad, Uncle- better her than you," she whispered, eyes sparkling with mirth.

He laughed and pulled her close, briefly, but incredibly for the normally formidable man. She climbed her horse, and he held the reigns one last moment.

"Remember, you are always welcome here."

"I know, Uncle, I know," she smiled.

And so, without looking back, Larys rode away from her family, and towards her future.

The road south to Sunspear was a well travelled one, lined with carriages filled with goods, Ladies and their entourage, and families from every background. It was a short journey, merely an hour, before she found herself gazing upon the magnificent dome of the Tower of the Sun, and the white, gold-crowned Spear Tower piercing the cloudless sky. Larys had ridden to Sunspear a thousand times before, but never had it seemed to so beautiful until she was about to leave.

The chiffon of her dress rustled in the mildest breeze, a blessing in such heat, and with it came the smell of salt and sea. Excitement churned in her stomach.

Riding through Shadowtown was the same as ever, filled with the sounds of yelling merchants, laughing children, and indignant buyers. The smell of sweat was strong, the smell of spices stronger, and the sun glared off the white-washed walls of the mud houses. She jumped off her horse, wandering through the winding alleys in the general direction of the port. Here she bought herself more perfume oils, the scent musky and erotic, with a slight hint of lemon, and gifts for her family. For her father, she bought an ornate dagger, not too extravagant, as she knew he would appreciate that, but sharp and very well-made. For her cousin Jory, who she remembered to be quite handsome, she bought a leather jerkin designed to be strong but light and flexible. And for her younger sister, Beth, she bought a beautiful yellow dress dusted with diamonds and flakes of gold.

At last, she came to the port, filled with ships from every corner of the known world, from Myr, from Yi Ti, from Braavos, with goods worth their weight in gold. And tucked against the Winding Wall of the Old Palace, was an inn, the Sailors Fist, sandwiched between a fish-mongers and a brothel. As she lead her horse over to a stable-boy with a copper, she entered the Inn, and on the innkeeper's instruction, up the stairs and to the seventh room from the window. She opened the door.

"Gods Eli, could you not handle  _one day_  without shoving some whore's cunt full with gold?" she yelled, the woman in question leaping off him with a scream.

The man climbed off the bed, in all his naked glory, dark hair tousled like a mane around his head. He turned to the whore who was scrambling to put on her clothes, which were so thin and flimsy it made no difference at all.

"How come you scream louder for her than me?" he exclaimed, mildly insulted.

The whore only glanced at him briefly, before grabbing the gold on the table and scurrying out of the room like a kicked dog. He looked around the room as if expecting another to pop out from behind the bed, before calmly pulling on his breeches and lounging on the bed.

"You might want to close that," he said nodding at the open door behind her. "The other one is due in a minute."

"Only a minute?" she said acidly, shutting the door and sitting on the chair beside it.

"So?" she prodded.

"So what?"

Larys raised her eyes to the heavens and prayed for guidance.

" _When does the ship leave?_ "

"Oh!" he cried, jumping off the bed and scrambling for his clothes. "Now!"

"Gods Eli," she hissed. "If you aren't the biggest fool I've ever met."

With that, Larys rose with all the dignity of a great lady, dusting off her dress lest she catch the pox, and swept from her cousin's room.

 


	2. The Smell of Pine

 

 

**Jon as I imagine him**  

 

**~The Smell of Pine~**

Larys stepped off the ship, and took a deep breath, before coughing violently and covering her nose with a small hand.

Eli stepped down behind her, stretching like a cat.

"Told you it smelt like shit."

She looked up at Kings Landing far less enthusiastically, beckoning for her horse, petite nose wrinkled. Gingerly, she mounted and made her way towards the city, with all the excitement of one arriving at their own funeral. Eli scrambled to catch up.

"Thank Gods we're only here for one night," she scoffed, as they rode their way through the city and towards Visenya's Hill, where Eli claimed they would find a decent place to stay. Although knowing him, decent probably meant the Street of Silk.

She frowned at the amount of beggars, although apparently there were ten times more at Flea Bottom, and tossed a few coins out. It looked as if Robert Baratheon was as bad a King as they claimed.

From the window of her room, she looked over the city, desperately trying to ignore the grunts and moans from the next room; Eli's obviously, with his new whore, a boy this time. Only the Gods knew why she had agreed to have him as her escort. Her Uncle Efran had insisted she travel with an entourage of guards, and he had put his foot down at one- that 'guard' being Eli, who despite his inability to perform the most basic of intellectual tasks, was surprisingly good with a spear. Clearly, her Uncle had need not worry about her lack of companions, as they would be followed by a string of bastards all the way to Winterfell.

Larys watched a maid wash clothes in the street, wishing for the life of her to go down and  _do_ something. But what on Earth was there to do here? Buy more dresses and silks? Her Uncle, rich merchant he was, had given her enough to last until her dying day, tucked away in the bowel of the ship he had lent her for her journey. Finest Myrish lace and silks, countless dresses, tapestries she had no place to hang, rugs she had no place to floor, and a veritable hoard of jewellery. She played with the ruby pendant of her gold necklace. How he had spoiled her.

She knew her father would likely frown at the extravagance of the gifts Efran lavished on her, but she was not stupid. She knew there were more important things in life. It was nice to look elegant, but she knew her station. No matter how rich her mother's family was, Larys was of House Cassel, a minor house of the North, in service to House Stark at Winterfell. And from what she remembered, the Starks did not themselves wear such luxury. Winter was coming, as they said, and silk could hardly feed you.

But then again, Larys was half Dornish, and who were the Starks to frown at her ways and customs? They were a family that owed their station to better men from a forgotten age. What did it matter that her dresses revealed more than they should? That she wore gold chains in her hair and emeralds around her throat, that she fastened her cloak with a diamond brooch? They could judge her all they liked, but she would do what felt right to her.

But now Larys felt a little guilty. Her father was fiercely loyal to the Starks, and the Lord and Lady had been kind enough when she was young. She even remembered Lord Stark's bastard, something Snow, helping her retrieve a ribbon that had fallen from her uncontrollable curls. Of course he had hardly looked at her the whole time, preferring to stare at his shoes and sulk, but he was kind to do so. And little Beth had been born while she was gone- father said Lady Stark had helped his then wife herself in the birthing. Yes, the Starks were good and honourable.

Filled with a sudden zeal, Larys leapt from her window seat and crossed the threshold of the room, peaking out of the door. She crept across the hall, as quietly as she could, although with that boy's legs around his neck, Eli could hardly hear her anyway.

The weather was warm, not like Dorne, but the sort of warm that came with too many people living too close together. She was in a richer part of Kings Landing, but the general over-crowded air of the city reached even the furthest points. Looking up she could see the Great Sept of Baelor, admittedly quite magnificent, and began to stroll in that general direction. Even if being mugged was quite unlikely in this area, with the City Watch lining the street, she knew, eyeing the drunks stumbling from taverns, cocks flapping, that Eli probably should have been with her. But she wasn't like the rest of the women here; at least, in Dorne, women learned some form of fighting. And right now, a thin dagger was nestled between her breasts, the light scabbard protecting her skin from the poison that lined it's blade. One nick was all it took- any man that dared touch her would be dead in moments.

Shop-keepers called out to her, a young boy ran up with a tray of baked goods, one of which she bought, before she reached the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor. She wondered if she was allowed inside.

"Boy?" she said, grasping the arm of a child running past. "Am I allowed into the Sept?"

He looked up in slight irritation, no doubt annoyed she had withheld him from running after his friends.

"Nobles are, milady, but not us common-folk."

She let him go, pensive, before slowly walking up the white steps. How many nobles were in Kings Landing? How many visited a day?  _Why,_  she wondered, gazing up at the looming statue of Baelor the Blessed,  _build a sept so big if there is no one there to fill it?_

The inside of the sept was huge, host to a few septas, and noble-born girls bowing before the maid.  _No doubt wishing for some knight to rescue them from this pile of shit_ , she thought.

Larys took the candle offered by a servant and wandered towards the massive statue of the mother.

"I never had a mother," she murmured, looking into the blank eyes of a Goddess. "I won't waste my prayers on you."

She moved to the Father, with his scales and bearded face.

"My Father however," she smiled. "I doubt he will appreciate me praying for him to the Seven. He worships the Old Gods, you see, and so do I. But then, if you are real, I would like you to judge us kindly. A God is a God, is it not?"

And so she lit her candle with the flame of another and placed it at the altar. Larys turned and looked at all the seven faces, their cold stone eyes and cold stone hands. Made by a stone-mason from years gone by. A man. What God needed a man to make them?

She walked swiftly from the Sept, blue skirt trailing behind her.

* * *

It took days to reach White Harbour, days to drag Eli away from a woman he'd grown to fancy, and days more to ride to Winterfell, laden as they were with a carriage full of her belongings.

Half a day or so from Winterfell, Larys, filled with joy to be home, and in the beautiful cold weather, rubbed her cheek against the fur of her cloak. It was the same one her father had given her when she was little, lengthened of course, and she could almost trick herself into thinking it smelt like pine, just like him.

She searched the few men hired to guard the carriage, and finally found Eli, at the back of the group, sulking in his massive fur cloak. The cold did not agree with him. Wheeling round, she went to join him.

"Will you stay in Winterfell for a while?" Larys asked.

"No," he grumbled. "It's hardly the nicest-looking place, and I've been before."

_No_ , she thought to herself,  _Eli likes things pretty- his whores, his hair, and his cities._

Winterfell was impressive in that it had stood for thousands of years and was still stronger than most any castle in Westeros. It was beautiful in it's impregnable walls, it's black towers, it's Godswood. Would that he understood.

It was not long before the castle in question loomed over the horizon, backed by the immense Wolfswood. In the light of the dying sun, it seemed as if a dream of home. But no, Winterfell was a solid and real as ever. And in it was family, was home.

A smile threatened to burst from her face as the gate slowly rose before her, completely oblivious of the young guard gawping at her, and more specifically, her breasts. She was hit with a flurry of emotions and memories as she rode slowly through the gate, wondering how she ever thought she would forget this place. Everything was where she had left it.

Larys dismounted her horse and cried out in shock when she was suddenly swept of her feet by a pair of strong arms. Turning around in his hold she came face-to-face with Jory. She laughed in joy and embraced him, burying her face in his neck.

"Gods, you're not nearly as green as you used to be," she beamed, lifting her head to look at the face of a grown man.

He kissed her cheek, eyes dancing with mirth.

"And you aren't nearly so ugly," he laughed.

She pushed him lightly, smiling as she did so.

"Where is Father? And Beth?"

He took her arm and began to lead her along.

"One of the guards spotted your carriage and told me straight away. I haven't told Uncle or Beth yet, I thought you might like to surprise them."

And sure enough, far ahead of her, she saw two boys training at swords, and over-seeing them, the back of a white-haired man. She smiled in silent thanks to Jory, before walking forward until her nose was almost touching his cloak. And there it was; underneath the smell of sweat and leather, the scent of pine.

Larys tapped his shoulder. Her father turned around, impatient, before his lined, whiskered face was struck dumb.

"Hello Father," she said softly.

" _Larys!"_  he exclaimed, yanking her forward into a ferocious bear-hug, laughing in shock. "You're here!"

"I am," she laughed, holding him tightly.

He pulled back and frantic eyes drank in her face, as though she might disappear for good.

"Gods you're as beautiful as the dawn," he whispered. "Just like your mother."

She blushed, even though she rarely did, and tried her best to stop smiling. He shook his head suddenly and turned around, leading her towards the two boys, more young men now she looked. One was red-haired, with blue eyes, and stocky. The other was taller, lean, with a certain grace, dark hair, and a handsome, long face. Both were comely, and both were staring.

"Lads," Father began proudly. "I'd like you to meet my daughter, Larys."

"I remember them plenty, Father," she said coyly, curtseying. "I'm sure they remember me."

She eyed the dark-haired one, the one she had the most memories of, and was pleased to see his cheeks tinge pink.

"My Lady," charmed Robb Stark, bowing slightly. "How was Dorne?"

No doubt they had been reminded of her circumstances previously, but she did not mind. It had been years. But she knew she'd never forget a face like Jon Snow's.

The walk through the Keep had been nice, sandwiched between the two lordlings, arms linked with both, although she had to admit, Larys had very subtly brushed Jon's arm against her thinly covered breast. Of course Robb hadn't noticed, busy as he was talking to her, but Jon, his face had turned redder than any wine she'd seen. It took all of her willpower to hold in her laughter and pretend she hadn't noticed, nodding innocently to what Robb was saying, talking in the right places and letting him go on in others.

"Here," Robb whispered, releasing her arm and gesturing to the door. "Beth is in there with Septa Mordane and the rest of the girls."

She slowly pulled her hand from Jon's, grazing his fingers with her own, and for one brief moment their eyes met, and she was struck by how intense they were; they were so  _black_. She turned abruptly, moment lost, and her smile slowly grew again, as she pressed her against lightly against the door. The praise of a Septa over needle-work, the low chatter of girls, and suddenly she felt ten years younger. Larys turned from the door to smile at the two men.

"Thank you for bringing me, but you don't have to stay," she said softly. "Unless you want to hear girls screaming."

Her eyes flickered to Jon, flashing over his form, and she almost gasped with joy when he turned cherry-red again. Oho, Jon Snow was not nearly so innocent as he seemed.

They bowed and left, with a promise to talk more at dinner. Facing the door, she rested her palms on the door, thinking quietly. Father she had always known, and Jory she had grown with. Beth was completely unknown to her, other than from the few letters written by Father and signed in her childish hand. Never once had she laid eyes on her only sister. Born to the last Lady Cassel, who soon after died of pox, her father had said she had Larys' hair but with the red colour of her mother's. Easy to find at least.

The door opened with a creak as she walked boldly through, standing tall as the four or so girls turned around and stared. One had copper hair in a shining waterfall down her back, blessed with pretty eyes and a lithe figure- instantly, she knew this was Sansa Stark, the same little girl that had followed her around Winterfell in the search for flowers. The next, sat at her feet like a dog, was a girl with brown hair she couldn't remember for the life of her. On the other side of the fat Septa that had joined in with the staring, was a younger girl, that she hadn't seen before, but bore a shocking resemblance to the man she'd just left- baby Arya.

Bu the only one she truly cared about was at the end, a little girl of seven, with a head of curls so similar to hers, but a great flaming red, almost orange, and an adorable porcelain face dusted with freckles. Pale blue eyes widened.

"Forgive me," she curtseyed to the room. "I am Larys Cassel."

Perhaps it was the Dornish drawl she had gained, or maybe the thin, sleeveless dress, but they only stared at her as if she now had three heads instead of two. It took a moment, before little Beth jumped from her place and ran forward. She wore a dark green, woollen dress, hair pulled back into a clumsy plait.

Beth stopped about a foot away, suddenly shy. Larys smiled softly and bent to pull her into a hug- Beth held on tightly, arms locked around her neck. She stood, shifting her sister onto her hip, as the girl was still tiny and light as feather.

"I'm Beth," she whispered, all big eyes and messy hair.

"I know, sweet," Larys murmured, and touched her forehead with her own.

Septa Mordane bustled forward.

"My Lady," she said, disapproving. "We did not hear you had arrived."

Larys smiled, but her eyes narrowed dangerously. This woman needed to learn her place. Larys had long since grown out of Septas; and the one she had had briefly was kind, and helped teach her manners, for when she needed them, and how to seduce men  _and_ women- perhaps it was not surprising Septa Lora had eloped with the Cook. Mordane was new though, she would have remembered her, Larys was sure.

"Of course you didn't," she said with a cold smile. "You weren't told."

The woman's face turned pink, and she turned suddenly to the other girls, cowed.

"Girls, this is the eldest daughter of Rodrik Cassel, come from Dorne," Mordane said. "My Lady, this is Sansa Stark, Jeyne Pool, and Arya Stark."

Sansa had remembered her manners, and curtseyed politely. Jeyne quickly followed, eyes glued to the outline of her form through her dress- Larys didn't know if she was scandalised or thick. Arya however, did the shoddiest curtsey she'd ever seen, and stared with blatant curiosity.

"Well children," began Septa Mordane, busying herself with picking up the cushions. "It is about time for dinner. I will see you here again at noon tomorrow."

And, just like that, Mordane scuttled out of the room, leaving the girls absolutely lost; was this the first time they had no mother hen to lead them to and fro?

Larys walked to the haphazard pile of cushions Mordane had made before retreating, and nudged them over with her foot so that they made a big pile. She sat down, deposited Beth beside her and beckoned over the other girls. Arya bounded over first sitting on her other side. A second later Sansa and Jeyne joined her. All were fit to burst with questions, she knew.

"Go on. Ask me anything."


	3. The Perfect Dress

**The Perfect Dress**

As soon as they had rounded the corner, Robb and Jon burst into excited conversation.

"Gods she's beautiful," grinned Jon, a testament to truth in itself.

" _Beautiful?_ " gaped Robb, before guffawing. "She looks like the Maiden's better-looking sister!"

"No way!" laughed Jon, suddenly cheeky. "She isn't nearly so innocent. Did you see the way she looked at us? Like we were a feast!"

Robb burst out laughing. "I'd prefer to be eating her myself, but can't say I'd say no if she asked."

" _Robb!"_

"Oh, don't act the maiden Jon," said Robb, slinging an arm around his brother's shoulder. "Don't think I didn't notice the eyes you made to each other. Mind sharing?"

"Never," he said weakly. Why would a woman so beautiful pay attention to him?

But Robb wasn't listening.

" _Unless you want to hear girls screaming."_ said Robb in a terrible impression of Larys' exotic purr. "Really knows what to say to get your sword up, doesn't she? Mind you, that accent does the job on its own, eh? Theon will be  _so_ jealous."

"Lads? Rodrik let you go early?"

It was Eddard Stark, rounding the corner to stand before them. His face was long, but handsome in a rough, bearded way- not quite Brandon Stark, but comely in his own right.

His two sons schooled their faces into practiced blank slates. Rather, Jon's was impeccable, and Robb's was atrocious. Lord Stark looked at the sudden twitch of his heir's mouth.

"What's this then?"

"We just met Larys Cassel, Father," said Jon calmly. "It was nice."

They're lips twitched, and they suddenly exploded into laughter. Ned smirked.

"I take it she's a beauty?"

They only laughed harder at that statement.

"If a star fell to the earth..."

"If flowers could walk..."

"If gold was a maiden..."

"If Jon was a girl..."

Jon punched his brother in the arm. He was pretty, Ned thought sadly, in an elegant, princely way.

"You won't dishonour her," Ned commanded severely, as they wiped tears from their eyes.

"Father!" exclaimed Jon, affronted, but it wasn't a second before a smile grew. "It's more likely she'll dishonour us."

"Not likely, darling, it's certain," purred Robb in a Dornish accent.

Ned laughed and gave them both a shove down the hall. "Get going you fools, and keep it in your breeches."

"As you command, my Lord," they bowed, before running off.

Ned turned, continuing walking down the hall, and his mind wandered. Times like this reminded him Jon was almost a man grown, at five-and-ten. In a few years no doubt, he would need to be married, given a holdfast of his own, a new name. But what name? And what woman?

He'd arrived at the door of his daughters' tutoring room, where they received lessons on southron courts and ladylike habits from Septa Mordane, and knocked lightly on the door before opening.

And what a sight. Arya and Sansa sat beside each other, smiling and talking animatedly, Jeyne Poole beside them, and in the centre of it all, with little Beth Cassel sat in her lap, was a woman he hardly recognised. She was indeed beautiful, and he was not surprised his sons had found her so attractive, in an exotic, different sort of way. But her face was familiar, and as she rose to curtsey, he was struck by how much the girl had grown.

"My Lord Stark," she said confidently, but politely. "I am Larys, as I am sure you know."

"Indeed," he said with a small smile. "I remember you very clearly. You used to follow my wife around the castle."

Larys, where others might be embarrassed, only laughed lightly.

"I was enchanted by her hair. It was good of the Lady to let me do so."

Arya seemingly bored with the conversation burst out, "Father! Larys is Dornish!"

"I know Arya."

"In Dorne, the women can fight! Just like Nymeria the Warrior Queen!"

Ned tried to hold in a smile as his daughter went on, taking no notice of his words.

" _And_ , in Dorne, they don't care about bastards! Larys says she doesn't care that Jon is a Snow!" she finished, slightly out of breath.

Truly, that was interesting. They would be a suitable and appropriate match, and Rodrik was fond of Jon. She would be Lady of her own Holdfast, married to a husband who would respect and honour her and a warm hearth for any children she had. But he did not wish to assume so much so soon as to whether they would get along. Better to let them decide themselves, in time.

Now it was his first daughter who spoke, pretty face excited and pleading.

"Father, Larys says her Uncle gave her silks and velvets and dresses! She says we might choose some if we wish! Can we, Father, can we?"

Ned eyed Larys' daring dress.

"In the Northern style, My Lord," she said with a smirk. "He also gifted me with several casks of Dornish Red. I was hoping you would take a few, as a thank you for allowing me to live here with my Father. Perhaps we could open one tonight?"

"Rodrik is a close friend and a good man. I could never say no, it is my duty to provide you with a home," he replied, with a slight bow of his head. "As for the dresses and the wine, I thank you. It would be my pleasure."

Dinner that night was a splendid affair, with Lord Eddard inviting his men to dine with him, and Dornish wine for all. It had been a long time, if ever, since many had drank such a treasure. It brought back memories of blood and sand and old promises.

The Lady Catelyn watched as her children and Snow interacted with the now grown Larys Cassel. At first, she had been wary, after hearing the Septa's report. But now she was here, Catelyn did not see so much to disapprove of. Yes, her dress was rather thin and revealing, but she herself was Southron, and had seen such before. Larys was very beautiful, although she thought Sansa more so, but most importantly, she seemed very well-brought up. She spoke with all of her children, never favouring one over the other, inquiring over each of their personal likes and dislikes. The fact that both Sansa  _and_ Arya liked her, evidenced by the wide eyes and still full plates, was a feat in itself. And, Catelyn thought, sipping her wine, it was very good of her to give them so much, even if it was slightly presumptuous of her to lavish them as if they could not themselves acquire such goods.

She was however, quite irritated by how the girl seemed to look and touch the Bastard. A girl of her looks should be smitten with Robb, or at the very least Theon Greyjoy, not Snow. But her husband did not say anything, so neither did she. Catelyn supposed it was appropriate, remembering her violet eyes. A Dornish woman for a Dornish bastard.

* * *

Two years crept by before anyone could realise it had. Over two years, Larys had grown closer with her family. Father was Father, the same stoic man that melted whenever he saw his daughters. Beth had only grown prettier, an adorable girl of nine that had blossomed with a woman to care for her. Jory was a good man, one she wouldn't have minded marrying had she not had her eyes on someone else.

That led her to Jon. Stupid Jon. I'm-a-bastard Jon. Idiot-grey-eyes Jon. Jon fucking Snow.

Gods did he drive her mad. They had so easily fallen into a routine of talking, which moved onto walking, that moved onto riding through the Godswood. It was horrid, how when he did make eye contact with her, however rarely, her tummy did flips like a mummers-show. He'd mostly listen to her, but then he would ask a question, so simple, but so probing and deep, she knew that he'd heard every word. Then her face would turn beetroot red, which she'd always thought was impossible considering her skin tone. Then again, Jon Snow was an impossible man that made her feel things she was not used to feeling. But what a man.

She didn't think he could become anymore attractive over the years, but he had. He'd lost the fat in his cheeks, his jaw was sharper than a knife, his eyes darker and even  _more_ hypnotising, and for heaven's sake he'd grown stubble that made her want to do very wrong things to him.

When she first realised she was starting to really care for him, she'd been absolutely terrified. Never had she felt like this. It had always been  _her_  making others feel that way. All of a sudden, the power had shifted, and this man who had no idea what he was doing to her had her heart in his stupid hands. So, in an attempt to make her feel at least a little in control, she had spoken more to others and less to him. She flirted with Jory, she gave Hodor a big fat kiss when he helped her horse birth, and danced with every guard in the damned hall at Sansa's nameday feast. But Jon was so good at keeping his face blank she had no idea if he was even the tiniest bit jealous. Because that's what it was really about. Seeing if he felt the same.

Clearly she would have to up the ante if she wanted to break Jon's shield wall, metaphorically speaking. So she went to the only person in the world Jon hated. Conveniently this man had been trying to seduce her for years.

"Theon," she whispered, looping her fingers under his belt and yanking him forward. "Dance with me."

The Hall was full, this time Robb's nameday, so far more than before. So many people were dancing, she doubted any would ordinarily notice her in the rows of men and women, but she'd made sure to wear a very special dress today. She'd made the switch long before to northern dresses, but today she had done something different. Larys wasn't wearing a corset, she wasn't wearing undergarments, yet what she was wearing was quite stunning. She knew Jon wasn't the type to stare at her body, but he was still a man. The dress she wore was of thin, floaty material. It loosely held her breasts, tying around her neck with a gold chain, with criss-crossing under her bust and around her waist. Her back was bare and tanned, definitely worth the scrubbing she'd given herself, and the grey dress had a secret. In the candlelight of the Great Hall, it was translucent. Very translucent.

And so, much to her advantage, eyes were already on her, and talk that she had  _finally_  said yes to dancing with Greyjoy had spread like wildfire. She began the dance patiently, holding in a shudder from Greyjoy's eyes raking across her form-  _It's not for you, you stupid cow,_ she wanted to scream,  _you think you have me but you don't!_

But instead she danced, waiting for Jon to looks. She'd avoided him the whole night, so that when he finally saw her, he'd been seeing her for the first time. If he cared for her, he would leave, if he didn't, he would ask to dance to protect her from Greyjoy like he would for Sansa. She really hoped he wouldn't do that.

Larys twirled, hair streaming unbound behind her. Then she saw him.

Jon was standing at the entrance, staring right at her. She saw him stare at her form, and then at her partner, who decided to press his body against hers. Gods did Greyjoy have bad timing. Looking up however, she saw Theon staring at Jon, a glint of smug pride in his eye. Too late, she saw Jon turn around, saw the broken look on his face, realised what she had done. Perhaps it had been cruel to use Greyjoy. She hadn't thought about what that would mean if he really did care for her.

Her head snapped back to Greyjoy, so uncomfortable with her chest pressed against his, and pushed him away, ignoring his look of surprise. Subtly as she could, she weaved through the dancers and drunks, and out of the door.

The cold air was like jumping into snow, and she hugged her arms as goose bumps erupted on her arms. She ran through the deserted courtyard, past the armoury, the distant noise of the feast fading away into nothing. Larys knew where Jon would be.

Stomach churning, she entered the Godswood, slowing to a walk amongst the trees. She had always been reasonably comfortable here, but now she shrank in on herself. It seemed as if the tress were groaning at her, for her sins.

When she finally crept towards the Weirwood tree, she was met with a sight that set her blood on fire. Jon stood stark naked in the pool. His back was long and lean, rippled with muscle, glowing in the moonlight. His hair was soaking, dark and long, biceps flexing as he squeezed out the water. Never in her life had she felt such burning desire as she did then.

She never knew how he had heard her, but he turned around, revealing the rest of his incredible body, water rippling around his waist. He stared.

Larys stepped forward, hugging herself, all her plans seeming like a silly girls tinkering, until her feet touched the water. She never knew why she did it, but she did it anyway.

Kicking off her shoes, she stared right at those dark eyes, and reached up to unhook the chain. Jon still stared, face masked, hands frozen at his neck.

The dress slid off into a puddle at her feet, and suddenly she felt ten pounds lighter. Jon's eyes slid first to her breasts, down, down, to the patch of black hair below. She tingled.

The water rippled as she moved forward, tentatively at first, and then more confidently, as the warm water of the springs embraced her in the cold. All too soon, she stood directly in front of him.

Their chests were a hairs breadth away. She looked up at him, and he had never seemed so beautiful as now.

"Why?" he whispered, raising his hand as if to touch her cheek, but he didn't.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she smiled.

"Because I was scared."

She pressed his hand against her cheek.

All of a sudden a dam broke, and he pulled her by her hips, crushing her body against his, burying his face in her hair. Her arms tightened around his waist, until they stood as close as two people could.

A tear fell from her eye as she pressed her lips on his shoulder. He cared.

Emboldened, she pulled back to look at him, and almost wept to see his face so bare, so naked. A hundred emotions she had never seen flitted across his face, eyes boring into hers. They moved together, lips meeting in the middle, and he tasted better than she could have imagined, pressed against her mouth. Her returned her vigour, and it was as if every part of her was on fire.

They broke the kiss, and he pressed his forehead against hers. Silence fell, and it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever heard.

"I love you," she said quietly, defiantly meeting his gaze. "I love you Jon Snow."


	4. The Weirwood Tree

 

**The Weirwood**

Jon stirred. He was warm, comfortable, more than he'd ever been. Very slowly, he looked down. Nestled into his chest, which was fantastically bare, was a black head of sweet-smelling curls. Then he remembered.

Gods how she played with his head. When he'd seen her, smiling in the Hall, in that incredible dress, dancing with Greyjoy like she should have been dancing with him, he almost gagged. Who was this vixen that made him lose all sense of honour?

He'd escaped to the Godswood and dove into the pool, trying to rinse away the site of her form, her curves, her smooth, sun-kissed skin. Unfortunately for him, she had followed, in all her beauty. There she had stood, staring at him, his body, as if he was he world. He daren't hope.

But then she had slipped out of that dress, and he'd forgotten his anger, his hurt, hypnotised by the sway of her hips, the soft bounce of her breasts, the hair between her legs. Her hair, loose and shining in the starlight, was tousled, curls stroking her hips. His body tensed, and the closer she came, the harder he became until she had come so close he could he could count her lashes. When she had pressed his hand to her cheek, had confessed he was just as scared as him, he cracked.

Any thought of honour, of duty, flew from his mind when he pulled her close, kissing her with such fury and passion, he felt he would bleed.

And when she pulled back, gasping, and had whispered she loved him, he felt as if he would burst. That this woman, this beautiful, incredible woman loved him, over any other man, left him speechless. For the first time, someone had dedicated their heart to him alone. He said the words, knowing not one word was a lie.

What followed was unrestrained, raw, as she shifted her hips against his and he'd growled. That smile, her eyes darkening, how she'd pulled him out of the water and to the Weirwood, left him hard as stone.

"Let's do it here, now," she whispered, soft and warm. "In front of the Gods. And damned be the one that lies when they say I love you."

And so they had. Bare and naked before the Gods- cradled by the roots of the Heart tree, bathed in the heat of their desire- they coupled in the cold air, and her maidens blood stained the white tree red.

Jon should have regretted it, should leave her now, laying in the Godswood, buried beneath his cloak. But he couldn't. Not here, in the growing light of a new day, where the Gods had blessed them, sheltered them with a thousand blood-red hands.

So instead, he studied her sleeping face. Lashes fanned across her cheek, lips drawn into a sulky pout, tiny nose twitching in her sleep. He ran a finger across her soft cheek, to her chin, along her jaw, back to her brow. Tugging a curl, he smiled at her whine of annoyance, as she buried her face back into his chest and batted his hand away like a cat.

"Larys," he whispered, poking her ribs. "Wake up Larys."

She yawned, rubbing at her eyes, blinking up at him like an owl.

"It hurts," she murmured sleepily. "Between my legs. It hurts a lot."

Jon felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He hadn't even thought of that, how he took her maidenhood. Regardless of dishonouring her, he had hurt her.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely, leaning on an elbow.

"No."

"What?"

"No," she repeated firmly, glaring at him. It was very hard too take her seriously with a leaf in her hair. "I know what you're thinking.  _I dishonoured her, how can I look at her now? What will her father think_?"

He hadn't yet considered her father- the blood drained from his face.

"But that doesn't matter," she continued, with the air of one addressing an unfortunate spillage. "You're going to wed me anyway."

"I am?" he said dumbly.

"Yes you are," she smirked, mirth sparkling in her eyes. "If you love me, you will."

"But I'm a bastard!"

"So what? I'm hardly going to inherit anything, am I? I'm not a great lady," Larys said firmly. "Either way, I could well be carrying your child. They say my mother was wonderfully fertile."

He gaped. Hadn't he sworn he would never have a bastard?

"Oh close your mouth Jon," she sighed, sitting up and holding his hand. She placed it on the root of the Heart Tree. "Didn't you swear you loved me? In front of the Gods? Didn't I? I  _want_ to spend the rest of my life with you, Jon. I wouldn't want any other man to be the father of my children."

Jon stared at her, at her hopeful face.

"But if you  _are_  with chi-"

"Look, if it's worrying you so much, I can drink moon tea. I have the special Dornish kind in my room, no one need ever know. Although when I throw it all up again, it will be all over you."

Her smile struck a chord. He was getting  _married_.

Jon sat up, leaning against the tree, wrapping an arm around her. She pulled his cloak to her chin with a shiver, knees at her chest.

"Do you know," she started with a snigger. "My plan  _did_ work."

"What plan is that?" he asked in surprise.

"I wore that dress and danced with Theon to see if you would be jealous."

He burst out laughing, all the hurt of last night long gone.

"I fell for that one didn't I? Who knew you were such a good strategist?"

"I did!" she exclaimed indignantly. "How else would I get an idiot like you to marry me?"

He gasped in mock offence, jabbing his fingers into her sides.

"No!" she cried, shuffling away from him, yanking the cloak with her. "You promised you wouldn't do that anymore!"

"I promise," he vowed with fake sincerity.

She hugged the tree root, lifting her head to the carved face, which, in all it's sadness, seemed to be smiling at them.

"Gods save me! He lies!" she wept, dramatically burying her face in her arms.

She froze.

Jon's laughter slowly died away, and he moved forward to see what had scared her. It was just a tree root, bone white like always. But she stared at it as if it was a demon.

"What is it?" he asked, a hand on her back.

A pause.

"My blood should be there," she said calmly, pointing at the root. "It was right there. I swear it. That's where I bled when you entered me."

"What are you talking about?"

He followed her finger to the random patch of root, clean as the rest of it. Jon vaguely remembered her hisses as he broke her maidenhood, murmuring sweet nothings in her ear, her nails scratching his back. He remembered the cool wood against his legs.

Jon ran a hand across where the blood should have been, dried and sticky. Instead, there was nothing. He turned his head, frantically staring at the other roots, looking for some hint of blood. Instead, he found himself staring at the face of the Weirwood.

"Look."

They stared, unconsciously holding each other, the long, solemn face staring back. Where there was once brown sap, there were fresh, wet tears. Tears the colour of blood.

* * *

By the time Larys had limped through Winterfell, and into her room, she was shaking like a leaf. She'd never been so terrified in her life.

Ripping off the ruined dress and pulling on a heavy velvet night robe, she tied it wrong three times. When it was finally secure, she walked to her chest, digging for the moon tea her Aunt had sneaked into one of her dresses. As she frantically prepared the tansy tea over the fire, she glanced at the door. Jon said he'd be here soon.

It wasn't a moment before he stormed in, pushing the door shut with his foot, wearing a loose white linen shirt and breeches tucked into boots. But he could have been wearing a dress for all a relieved Larys cared just then.

"Do you have the honey?"

He nodded silently. Larys twisted her hair into a knot and beckoned for the jar. He sat on the floor beside her as she added a spoon of honey to the mix, stirring it in. Now it had to simmer.

Her hands fell to her lap.

"Fucking hell Jon."

"I know," he whispered.

"What was that?"

"I don't know."

"It drank my  _fucking blood._ "

"I know."

Jon stretched his legs out either side of her. She leaned forward.

Larys stabbed at the fire with the poker, jabbing aggressively.

"It was going so  _fucking_  well," she wept suddenly." _And then that_   _stupid_   _fucking tree drinks my fucking blood!_ "

She burst into tears. Jon pulled her back till she leaned against him, and held her. He didn't know what else to do.

He didn't say anything. What was there to say? Everything she had said was true. He was scared shitless.

When she had quietened down, they sat in silence, haunted by the twisted ending to a wonderful night. The tea bubbled.

"It's ready," Larys said numbly, breaking from his hold and pouring a cup. She sat blowing on it, and he watched her, leaning back on his hands.

"What if this is a blessing?" Jon suggested, undeterred by her disbelieving look. "No really. Don't the Gods  _like_ blood sacrifices? Why would they curse us?"

"I don't know Jon," she scoffed sarcastically. "Probably because we fucked in front of them. "

He shook his head. "The Old Gods are different. They don't have so many rules as the Seven. They must know it wasn't just a drunken mistake. They  _have_  to know."

Larys paused and turned around slightly. Jon's tone of voice had changed, panic seeping in. He'd been trying to keep calm for her.

She sighed.

"There's nothing we can do except pray I suppose. Best not think about it," she managed with difficulty.

He nodded and rose, helping her up.

"Are you going to drink the moon tea?"

"Yes of course," she said brushing herself off and grimacing.

She lifted the cup to her lips, not pausing to think about what she was doing, and downed the cup. Coughing and spluttering, she stumbled to her bed. Jon hurried to get her water, and she drank it slower.

"Gods," she gasped. "That tasted terrible!"

"I'm sorry, even though you don't want to hear it."

"You're damned right I don't."

Larys continued to sip her water, wondering if she would know when her unborn child, if there, would die. In an effort to distract herself, she looked at Jon. Aside from blood-drinking and child-killing, that night had been unbelievable. Just thinking about it sent tingles up her spine. Of course, it would be a while before she could let him anywhere near her place, sore as it was, but there were other things to do.

"Help me take off my robe, Jon."

* * *

Lord Stark watched from the balcony as Jon and Larys mounted their horses. Something had changed between them, he could swear it. Before, Larys had been the forerunner, always touching Jon first, always starting conversation, and holding it after it began. But now it was balanced, and so natural- light touches as he helped her mount her horse, handing him a hunk of bread she'd saved him from breakfast, the way he pulled a leaf from her hair without so much as blinking. And as they rode out of Winterfell, Ned couldn't help but believe he'd been right all along. They were made for each other.

Ned walked slowly back to his solar, thinking heavily. If Jon and Larys married, Jon would need a name. Should Ned legitimise him as a Stark? Or something else? Something very, very different?

One thing was for sure. Him and Jon needed to talk.

"What's wrong?" Larys asked, pulling Jon's bread and taking a quick bite before he could.

He smiled slightly, shaking his head.

"It's stupid."

When she continued to wait expectantly, he sighed and expanded.

"Why hasn't anything happened yet? It's been weeks and we haven't been cursed or killed in our sleep or  _anything."_

Larys didn't look at him, intensely studying another leaf she'd pulled from her hair. "Do you want to be cursed?"

"Well obviously not, but the wait is killing me."

"Yes," she began nervously. "Well, something  _has_  happened."

He turned sharply, taking in her expression. "Go on."

"It's strange, and scary, and at first I thought I was just hearing people talking, but then I realised they were there even when I was alone. The whispers I mean. They tell me things. I've only heard them a few times. I couldn't understand what they were saying. But they were there."

Jon stared silently ahead, deep in thought.

"Maybe it's the Gods."

Instead of laughing as she once would have, Larys remembered the tree, and the line between her brows deepened.

"Maybe it is."

* * *

The wind howled. Jon sat silent upon his horse, looking over leagues of grey and green and purple. The grey of stone, the green of grass, and purple of heather.

In the South, mountains like something from a folk-tale, and to the East, the Sunset Sea. Around them were trees- oaks, pine, chestnut, condensing into a forest before them.

In the distance, a silver ribbon on the horizon was the Wall, small from here, but still it seemed to stretch half-way across the world.

"Here, come."

Jon followed his father's horse, and the two of them wound through the green giants, making their way forward, until suddenly, a clearing. A lake. And in that lake, a tower.

"This is Queenscrown," he gaped, wondering why his father had gone to so much effort to bring him here alone.

Eddard Stark just looked at him, a glimmer of sadness in his cold grey eyes.

"I thought it was appropriate," he whispered.

Before Jon could ask why, his father spurred his horse forward, around the lake. Jon hastened to follow, carefully, as he tried to avoid misleading swamp paths. They found themselves half-way around the lake, and suddenly, at an exact point he was sure he could never have found without his father to follow, was a path. Lined by willows, it led through the reeds and towards the tower, which although shrouded by mist, looked far larger than he had imagined.

When they at last found themselves at the gate, Jon was stunned by just how large it was. Hidden by the willows, what he had thought was a copse of trees was truly a keep, and a new one at that.

"When was this made?" he said in awe, staring up at the golden mernals of legend.

"About ten years ago now," said his father, joining him in dismounting. "When I knew for certain it would be yours."

"Mine? What are you talking about? All this belongs to the Nights Watch."

His father sighed, running his hand along the vine covered wall.

"It did. But for years now I've been meaning to do something with the New Gift. Queen Alysanne Targaryen meant well, but Lord Stark had protested, and rightly so. He knew it would be neglected by the Watch, and he knew the North far better than she ever did. The Watch will make a fuss, but there isn't much they can do. They've done nothing with it for years, and the villages around here are deserted because of the wildling attacks they failed to repel. What the North needs is a man loyal to it and the people, closer to the Wall than the Umbers, close enough to help them when they need it."

"And you think it's me?" gaped Jon, mind whirring. "Why me? Why not some Lord of noble birth? Or Bran when he grows?"

"No," said Ned, shaking his head. "Bran has years ahead of him yet. And you are far more than you think you are Jon. You are of far nobler birth than any Lord, or even Robb."

Jon froze and stared at his Father. He had not imagined it. Lord Stark's face was far more solemn and resigned than he had ever seen it. His own face staring back at him.

Blood pounded in his ears.

"It's time we spoke about your Mother, Jon."


	5. Snow Targaryen Stark

** **

** Snow Targaryen Stark **

Larys knew something was wrong as soon as Jon and Lord Eddard rode through the gates of Winterfell. Standing in the Library Tower, she saw how Jon lagged behind his father. The gap between the two men grew until they separated completely, Lord Stark dismounting for the Keep, Jon for the Godswood. What had happened?

She'd been as curious as everyone else when Lord Stark had declared he and his natural-born son would ride North together, with not one guard. No explanation, no excuse, no backstory. Just that they would ride North together, with no one else, and that was that. But the frantic, unintelligible whispering in her head told her there was something more.

It had been a strange few days. Recently, she'd been spending a good chunk of her time with Jon. He at least, had training to busy himself with; Larys, however, had long since finished her studies, and couldn't stand to be anywhere near that stupid Septa. So when she wasn't with her family, she'd spent her time with each of the Starks in turn- laughing with Robb, chatting with Sansa, riding with Arya, and chasing the dogs with Bran and baby Rickon. But all of them were noble children with noble things to do, so when she was alone, which wasn't so bad really, she climbed the Library Tower and read a book. Sometimes she'd bake a pie to take with her- baking was her secret hobby- or even hot milk.

However, as she ran down the spiral stairs, clutching a stitch, she concluded that perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to stay in the tallest tower in Winterfell. She slowed to a walk as she crossed the courtyard, but one hand fiddled with the dark green skirt of her Northern dress, trying not to outwardly show her excitement. Gods knew she didn't need anymore attention from the stupid men-at-arms than she got. The cravens would only talk if her Father wasn't there. The Godswood welcomed her with open arms, dense and silent as always.

"Jon! Where are you, you fat oaf?" she called, stumbling through the trees. She stopped suddenly, cheeks flushing.

Instead of Jon sitting at the Heart Tree, it was Lord Stark. Larys had just ran around like a headless chicken in front of the  _Warden of the North._

The first thing she noticed, through her embarrassment, was that Lord Stark looked very sad. He always looked sad of course, but this time his eyes were soft and resigned, tired. He looked up, and his lips only twitched.

"I'm so sorry, my Lord. I didn't mean to interrupt you're prayers," she curtsied, trying to ignore the leaf in her hair. Why did she  _always_  have a leaf in her hair?

He waved it off with a tiny smile, before, to her surprise, beckoning her forward. Tentatively, she sat at the stone below him, looking up at the lined face that looked so much like Jon's. If she had anything to say about it, this man would be her father-in-law. The voices hissed. They were louder than ever, sat as she was where she bled.

"Do you love Jon?"

Silence fell as she sat still as stone, and he waited patiently, gazing over the water. What was she supposed to say? Had Jon told him? This was his father, was it not? She could think of no reason why he shouldn't know.

"Yes," she said slowly.

He nodded.

"I thought you did. He loves you too. He wants you to have a good life, a home and hearth," he said quietly, not looking at her.

She turned to look at him, wary.

"Jon is my home."

He smiled softly, and he seemed to sit straighter.

"No matter what?"

"No matter what."

* * *

When she finally found him, sitting slumped against the wall of his chamber, she was nervous. Something bad had happened- never before had Lord Stark looked so vulnerable, and looking now, neither had Jon.

She edged forward, sliding down the wall to sit beside him, close enough to feel the heat pouring off him like waves- he'd always been such a warm person- but not touching him. She could see the faint hairs on his knuckles as they clenched and unclenched, larger than her own.

Minutes crept by until finally, he tilted his head to look at her. She almost faltered at the glistening of tears in his eyes. They took her in, her hair, her eyes, her lips and back again. He spoke.

"I shouldn't be here."

Larys waited with baited breath, a sense of foreboding settling in her stomach.

"Winterfell. I shouldn't be in Winterfell. I don't belong here."

"Jon..."

"No, Larys," he whispered, and she hadn't the heart to disagree. He looked so broken.

"I'm going to tell you something that will change everything. You can't tell a soul."

The voices were screaming.

"I understand if you don't want anything to do with me. If we weren't tied by the will of the Gods, I don't think I could tell you."

They rose to a crescendo, screeching, clawing at the back of her eyes, and for the first time, she could understand what they were saying.

_Ice. Fire._

Jon said something, but she didn't hear. Her eyes danced frantically, looking at nothing as her head echoed with the shrieks of those two words.

Then, so suddenly she was shaking, they fell silent.

"Larys?"

"Yes," she murmured, focusing on his worried face. "What did you say?"

He took a deep breath through his nose, turning away.

"My mother was Lyanna Stark," he forced out, jaw clenched. "My father was Rhaegar Targaryen."

She froze.

"I'm sorry, what?"

He explained it to her, hiding his face, staring at the ceiling, voice weak and defeated. How Lyanna had hated Robert, had agreed to elope with Rhaegar. How he had wed her in Dorne, the home of the woman he'd left behind. How after a year of war, of death and ruin, Jon was all that was left of the Silver Prince and his wild wolf-girl.

A tear ran down her cheek as Larys stared at the last Targaryen, desperation drawn into the lines and contours of his face, a face that was so regal, so  _noble,_ she wondered at how she'd been so blind. They said he looked like Lord Stark, but now she looked, the differences she could never pinpoint came to light. The chiselled jaw, the smooth slope of his nose, the high, proud cheek-bones, and the eyes so dark they were almost black, the eyes she loved, so different from Lord Stark's, and she wept to see him become a stranger before her very eyes.

Suddenly, she was so full of grief for the bastard she had known, for the bastard she had loved, that she jumped into his lap, straddling his waist, and pulled him to her with all the fierceness of a woman in love.

This man had spent his whole life wishing he was something more until, when he'd finally made peace with himself, his world had come crumbling down around him. Her heart broke to feel him wrap his arms around her like she might disappear too, broke to feel the wet of tears in the crook of her neck, broke to smell and stroke the dark hair that was suddenly too soft, too thick.

They sat like that for hours, until finally, they fell asleep in each other's arms, on the cold stone floor.

* * *

The days that followed were different. Jon dove into training like a mad man, startling all those around him with the ferocity and fury in his swings, fuelled, Larys knew, by anger at his dead sire. At the injustice of it all. Had the Gods not wrangled all they could from him?

Larys drifted around Winterfell like a ghost. She had lost her fire, so focused on thoughts and the voices, that everyone she crossed was left feeling unsettled. The guards cat-called louder, hoping to garner a fierce response, until even Jory did not stop them, waiting too for an insult that never came. When Arya came running, ready to discuss Mordane's latest crimes, she was given a faint murmur and nod, that the girl left agape.

When they came together, in the privacy of his chambers, to lie together, cocooning themselves from the world with furs until it felt as if it was only them in this damned world. She would whisper that he was just as innocent of his heritage now as he was when he was bastard, and he would shush her, bathing in the knowledge that, between them, there were no secrets.

A month passed, and Jon slowly returned to himself, albeit more reserved, colder, face set like stone. A raven came from Kings Landing, that almost tore down all the walls Jon had made. Lord Stark had been given permission from Robert Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, to legitimise Jon as a Stark. How Jon had laughed, laughed until he cried, that he was half-kidnapper and Lord Stark still loved his nephew as a son. Then he had been afraid, not wanting to sully the Stark name with his, not wanting to deceive those around him. Until, Lord Stark had sat with his nephew and reminded him that if Jon wanted to marry Larys, who had adjusted quicker than he, he needed a name to give her. Reminded him that there was a time and place for setting aside honour- taking him in as a babe was one, and this was another.

And he had looked at the woman who loved him as a Snow, loved him as a Targaryen, and would love him as a Stark, and knew that he owed her a debt that could never be repaid. It was easy to love her, harder to love him.

When the time had come to say the words, in front of the Heart Tree that had made this happen, he'd been strangely calm. His siblings were there, all smiles and laughs, although Sansa's was more reserved, and beside them was Larys. She was not smiling, but her eyes were dancing with mirth as he knelt before the same tree they he'd knelt before not long ago. He avoided her gaze for fear of laughing, but as he swore his oath, and his Uncle rested the heavy blade of Ice on each shoulder, his eyes found hers again, and they were full of something so soft and warm, he almost forgot how to stand. But stand he did, and rose as Jon Stark of Winterfell. He would never inherit, to placate Lady Stark, not unless everyone one of his cousins died, Gods forbid, but he was a Stark nonetheless.

Lord Stark had opened one of the treasured casks of Dornish Red, and more people than Jon could count congratulated him with complete sincerity. Everyone of them had seen Jon grow, and had taken more notice of him than the solemn man realised. In another place, perhaps only a few leagues away, perhaps they would not care, would not see the difference, but here, where he had grown, they spoke aloud the 'my lord' they had once whispered to themselves.

Rodrik Cassel, happy as he was to see others recognise the potential he'd always seen in Jon, was still completely stunned when the very next day, Jon had asked for Larys' hand in marriage. It seemed that what everyone had seen between them since they were children, he had been blind to. When it came to his daughter, time flew, and where there was once a girl with hair filled with leaves and a toothy smile, there was now a woman as beautiful as the sun with Jon Stark after her hand. How she had beamed when he said yes.

In no time at all, he stood beside his eldest daughter at the gate to the Godswood, who looked resplendent in a simple dress of pale cyan and white, shining pearls around her throat. She wore a heavy, fur-lined cloak embroidered with the ten wolves of House Cassel. Soon it would be just one.

Larys turned to face him, and he was struck by how beautiful she was. The tan of her skin, like amber against the summer snows, the big dark eyes and blood-red lips she'd inherited from his lady mother.

"Father," she whispered, laying a small hand on his whiskered cheek. "I will always be your daughter."

"I know," he said with a sad, proud smile. His daughter was to be a  _Stark_. Martyn would be proud- if only his brother was alive to see her, he'd lift a horn of ale and bless Rodrik's darling wife Elys as the best of women, and Larys even better.

"Come, it is time for you to wed," he said, taking her arm. "The Gods wait for no one, Stark or Snow."

* * *

When Larys stirred, she found herself staring at the marvellous chest of one Jon Stark. Gods, that meant she was Larys  _Stark_. That would take practice.

She placed a kiss against the underside of his jaw, revelling in the taste of his skin, smiling when he groaned, although that smile disappeared when he rolled onto her. He wasn't even doing it as if to bed her, he just lay on top of her with all his weight and kept on sleeping. She grunted, trying to shove him off, eyeing the small smirk of his lips with a scowl. When nothing she did worked, she tilted her head back and bit his nose- hard. He yelped and fell off her, and she clasped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from laughing. With a growl, he wrestled with her, which lead to other things.

Finally, they lay together, staring at the ceiling, thinking on how far they'd come. Jon Stark and Larys Stark. Then she remembered something.

"Jon," she whispered, rolling over to face him. "Do you remember when we first lay together? In the Godswood?"

He smirked.

"Very well," he murmured, tracing circles on her bare hip.

"Well, do you remember when I drank the moontea?"

"I try not to," he sighed.

"I don't think it worked."

He looked at her strangely, then down at her flat belly. She rolled her eyes.

"It's only been a month, you can't see anything yet."

"Then how do you know?"

She waited for him to understand, and upon hearing the 'oh' and seeing his blush, she continued.

"I've never missed a bleeding. Five days, at the end of every month, since I was eleven. I've been due for a week now," she paused, before adding delicately, "And the voices agree. They said we were stupid to think a child born from a union blessed by the Gods could be killed by some whore's poison. Their words, not mine."

"Fucking hell," he muttered. "Morbid sense of humour, haven't they?"

"Jon!" she protested, shoving his arm. "Are you dense? That means we're having a baby!"

He turned his head indignantly, armed with a scathing retort, but the response died in his throat. He couldn't say he was disappointed the moontea hadn't worked. He hadn't wanted to father a bastard, but the thought of what could have been had haunted him. But now the Gods had decided for them- Jon was going to be a father.

"It does, doesn't it?" he said, staring at her intensely.

She smiled, nodding, wriggling back under his arm, poking his tummy.

"What should we call him?"

They paused, thinking.

"Him?" he wondered aloud.

"Yes," she nodded, smiling and patting her tummy. "A strong baby boy, they said. As handsome as his mother, Gods be good. They would be cruel to curse him with your moody face."

"Excuse me, but  _I_  have the blood of Old Valyria! Not some forsaken snake pit down South!"

It made her inexplicably happy to hear Jon joke about his heritage.

"Well I have Valyrian blood too, I'll have you know! My mother was half-Lyseni, so there!"

Jon burst into laughter at her childish banter, and they soon settled down to think seriously on names.

"Edrick?"

"Gods Jon," she said, wrinkling her nose. "That's the ugliest name I've ever heard."

"Alright, what about Allen?"

"Are you drunk?"

"What's wrong with Allen?"

"If I wanted my son to sound like a farmer, I would have wedded someone else."

"Well you wedded me."

"Unfortunately."

But her eyes said otherwise.


	6. The Starks of Queenscrown

 

 

 

**The Starks of Queenscrown**

Larys shifted on the chair as Maester Luwin shuffled around the room. She liked him. He was sharp as a knife and as loyal as a man can be. What more can one ask for than that a man be good at his work and loyal to the one he's working for?

Flinching ever so slightly, she sat still as she could as Luwin felt around her tummy; there was a bump, only just, a little hill at her belly button. His hands pressed down and she jumped.

"It's alright," he chuckled. "I'm just testing how hard it is, that's important."

She shook back her hair, cheeks pink.

"Easy for you to say," she grumbled. "You're hands are like blocks of ice."

"Forgive me, we are finished."

Luwin moved to the fire to melt his ice hands, and she quickly slipped the navy woollen dress over her head and linen under-dress. It fit snugly over her tummy and growing breasts, and she breathed easier. Larys never knew it was so hard to be bare in front of others; she had no problem before the babe, and never with Jon.

"Is all well?" she questioned, pulling the heavy braid over her shoulder, letting it drape to her hips, brushing away the stray curls from her face. The man didn't move, kept his back to her and warmed his hands by the hearth of the Maester's Tower.

"The babe is remarkably large for a month."

Larys revealed nothing, lacing up the dress at the sides, not looking at the man. When her and Jon waited a month before telling anyone she was with child, she had done so knowing full well Maester Luwin would never believe her.

"He isn't a month old," she said calmly, settling in a chair beside him, basking in the warmth. He turned to look at her, lined face unsurprised, but curious.

"How old? I assume it's Jon's?"

"Of course he's Jon's!" she exclaimed indignantly, huffing. "Two months. We lay together after Robb's nameday feast. It wasn't a mistake, we weren't drunk or anything. We loved each other, and it only seemed natural to show that."

He nodded calmly, which surprised her, because outside of Dorne and whore-houses, it was greatly frowned upon for a woman to lose her maidenhood before marriage, even more so to admit to it.

"So you married for the babe?"

"Oh, no, Jon didn't even know about it until the day after we married. I only realised just before. He asked me to wed him right after he became a Stark, you see. I suppose we just wanted to be together as soon as we could."

"Young love," he chuckled. "Of all the maladies I have seen, perhaps that is the most potent. You are lucky you are suited to each other."

"Yes," she nodded, smiling softly. "Gods be good we will make it old love one day."

"I'm sure you will, with many children to see it."

Larys eyed him carefully.

"I'd prefer it if this stayed between us."

He nodded, smiling ruefully.

"I doubt anyone will ask, but I will keep your silence all the same."

They sat in peace, staring into the fire. Luwin was right, Larys was incredibly lucky to love a man like Jon and have him love her in return. He was so solemn, so quiet, but with her he was like another man- he laughed, he smiled, he did stupid things like wear one of her dresses to cheer her up after a bout of morning sickness. That she was the daughter of a minor House, and he the bastard of a Great one, was a blessing in disguise. She did sometimes think on how she, a lady of nothing, was married to the last scion of House Targaryen. The Gods did play their games, but she did not begrudge them this one.

She'd finally risen and was about to bid him farewell, herbs in her pocket to temper the sickness, when Luwin spoke up.

"How do you know it's a boy?"

She shrugged, smiling mischievously.

"Mother's intuition."

Larys wandered down the tower and through the courtyard, finding her way to her rooms, now bare of her belongings. All of her and Jon's things were piled into a carriage at the gates, ready for their departure tomorrow. One more day left in Winterfell before they left for Queenscrown.

Larys had never seen Queenscrown before, and Jon had been severely distracted last he'd been, but Lord Stark had helped fill the gaps. Where there had once been a tower in a large lake, he'd had sand from the coast piled around it, creating stable land on which a keep was built, with housing for a barracks, a yard, kennels, and even stables. And the only way to reach that island, other than the hidden path, was a stretch of land from the Keep to the bank, gated at either end. He'd had the tower stabilised, although the interior remained untouched, and the village at the shore of the lake had been renewed. And around it all, he'd built a large stone wall to withstand attacks from all sides.

At first she had been absolutely stunned at all Lord Stark had done, and he'd explained when he saw her shock. For a decade he'd been steadily reinforcing the stronghold, with the aim of naming someone Lord over it and the New Gift. More and more wildlings had begun to climb over the Wall, cross at the Gorge, or sail around it through the Bay of Seals or Bay of Ice. Either way, the wildling attacks had driven away countless smallfolk until the New Gift was almost deserted, homes and villages left abandoned for lack of sufficient protection from the Night's Watch.

Now however, Lord Stark had been receiving reports from both his brother and the Lord Commander that more and more wildlings were coming South- now, more than ever, the Watch needed a constant ally, close enough to respond almost immediately, to support them in Winter and fill their ranks in Summer. And to Lord Stark, Jon was the obvious choice.

She knew little of battle tactics, but she knew that giving Jon lordship over the New Gift rather than land in another Lord's terrain was a savvy manoeuvre of Ned Stark. He had a man he trusted controlling a crucial tactical position, and need not convince anyone but the Night's Watch. And the King, but it seemed after legitimising Jon, anything else was easy as pie for the King's best friend. The Night's Watch however, would no doubt scowl and shake their fists, but ironically, they would benefit. Jon and the villages under his rule would pay half their tax to Castle Black, and the other to Winterfell, and that was only until the cost of renewing Queenscrown was repaid, probably a way to stop Jon from killing himself at the thought of causing Ned too much fuss. And Jon would send them supplies and food for winter, and visit regularly to assist them in their business. They could hardly complain- the loss of land they never used against more men, more food, and more money.

To think she would be leaving Winterfell for good, leaving her family, leaving her friends. She always knew it would happen; that she would marry a man and leave all she had for all that was his. This was better than marrying some man, she was married to  _Jon_. The day Jon tried to force her to do something was the day Arya learnt to sew. Perhaps she could even persuade her father to let Beth visit for a while? Probably not, he would likely hold onto her with all his might now that his first daughter was leaving. She'd still have Jory; he'd been given permission to help Jon with his men and act as a temporary second-in-command until they had settled. Still, she'd be lonely when they all left to do men things.

Larys was reading a note from her Uncle Efran. He'd been disappointed to miss out on her wedding, and had promised to increase her funds from their family account at the Iron Bank, and to personally strike up a trade deal with Lord Stark, as clearly, he'd noted, what was her family, was his family. Thank the Gods; her grandfather had risen through the ranks in Lys and had become an extremely successful trader, eventually marrying his Dornish wife and having two children. Both of those two had lived between Sunspear, the Watergardens, and Lys, fluent in Valyrian and Common. Sometimes Larys wished she'd inherited the lilac eyes of her Lyseni heritage, but perhaps it would have only promoted her image as foreign.

She'd just prepared her reply, rolled and stamped, when Arya and Brandon Stark barrelled into the room, followed by Jon, who was wheezing like an old man.

"We're coming with you!" Arya yelled, leaping onto their bed and hopping around.

"I'm going to see the Wall!"

Larys looked to Jon, astonished, to find him grinning.

"Lord Stark persuaded his wife to let them stay with us a week or two," he said.

Her eyebrows rose to her hairline.

"What in the world did he pay her?" she laughed, smiling as the two rolled around in excitement. "I suppose it will keep things entertaining."

Jon yelped in shock as two small people yanked him into a wrestling match, where they eventually tag-teamed against him. Larys was only a tiny bit annoyed that she couldn't join in, but contented herself with calling advice and poking him with her foot.

* * *

A month later, Jon sat astride his horse, cloaked in fur with his hair pulled back, chuckling lightly at the banter of his men, but sharply watching the road. He'd taken to riding with his men up and down the Kingsroad, which was one of his duties. From the northern border to the southern border, travellers were guarded from bandits and wildlings until they left the New Gift. Already they'd had numerous skirmishes, although none of his men had fallen as of yet. Five or so armed, horsed men were more than enough to dispatch a group of tired, badly trained savages. Jon had them on rotation, so each of his men grew in experience and was fresh upon every patrol.

He'd also had a designated group of men that were rangers, come down from the mountain clans in the West, attracted by the honour in serving a Stark. They were tougher, more coarse than the rest of his men, staying with each other- but men always united when there was ale to drink and wildlings to kill, so there wasn't too much friction. They scouted the New Gift, without horse and clad only in fur. Their job wasn't to take out the wildlings they found, but to set fire to their supplies, kill the stragglers, and make their way back to Queenscrown with a warning on their lips.

It wasn't honourable, and it wasn't clean, but he'd learnt from both his Uncle and his wife that nothing ever was. He was a Targaryen, son of a mad Prince, grandson of a madder King, and the only honour left for him was serving Winterfell, loving Larys, and protecting the innocent smallfolk from being raped, murdered, and eaten alive. So he did.

And he was  _good_ at it. For once, there was something he excelled at, away from the shadow of his trueborn cousins and Aunt; this, leading men and fighting with them, was something that felt right. No one here cared anymore more that he used to be a Stark. He remembered they were wary at first, no doubt wondering why a boy as green as he was leading them, until he proved to them that the last time he was green was when he'd been a Snow. Now, as a Stark, he'd grown, through finding his heritage, through finding his place, through finding his purpose.

On the journey North, they had stopped at Last Hearth, and dined with the Umbers. They were difficult to forget.

Smalljon Umber had been the first to greet them, a head taller than Jon, who was tall himself, and twice as wide. Larys had whispered that he looked like an aurochs, and he couldn't help but agree. Moving past the gates, Jon had looked up at the stronghold and had found he rather liked it. It was different to Winterfell, which was built of stone and had a certain cold strength; Last Hearth was made of wood, wider than it was tall, rustic and surrounded by pines. 

Lord Jon Umber, better known as the Greatjon, had been waiting at the Lord's seat in the Hall. He had no expectations of Jon Stark, formerly Jon Snow. Better to be pleasantly surprised than disappointed. When the new Lord of Queenscrown walked in, the Greatjon sat a little straighter, gripping the arm of his chair very so slightly. For a moment he thought it was Eddard Stark walking through that door, but when he looked closer, he saw his hair was darker than Ned's chestnut-brown, closer to the shade Brandon and Lyanna Stark had shared. His face was chiselled and long, with a short black beard that only weakened Greatjon's prediction that he'd be meeting a boy. Eyes dark and hard put Lord Stark's icy stare to shame, and the Greatjon found himself holding back a grin. But looks were one thing, the boy had yet to prove himself a man.

From behind Jon Stark's form came a woman he hadn't expected. He'd heard Stark had married, but he thought it would be some pale, brown-haired mouse of a girl that did her duty and said her prayers. Instead, he found himself eyeing a Lady in very sense of the word, chin held high, eyes blazing, tanned and raven-haired, but wearing her furs as if she had been born into them.

Yes, the formidable pair had certainly surpassed his expectations.

"My Lord Umber," Stark said, not loudly, and yet his voice rang through the Hall strong and clear.

"Jon Snow," he boomed, stepping around the table to loom over him. Stark only stared back impassively. "Or is it Stark?"

"Difficult to remember at such an age, is it not my Lord?" Stark said calmly, never wavering.  _The Greatjon's stare could never compare to Catelyn Stark's_ , he thought.

The Greatjon held his gaze, bristling like the bear he was, and everyone in the Hall waited with bated breath. He saw his son a few feet away, wary, and the woman watching carefully. Suddenly, he let out a bark of laughter.

"Stark it is," he grinned, turning to the Lady. "Might be the age, but I haven't seen a face twice so pretty as that!"

"I think it's more to do with the ale on your breath," she smirked, dipping a curtsey. "Any more and you'll be pawing at a dog thinking it's a woman."

"My wife's not far off," he guffawed; she had wit, this one.

"Don't be so rude Jon," said a woman, before smirking. "Or you'll be buggering yourself till you're old and grey."

The Starks turned to the approaching woman. Lady Nira Umber was middle-aged with hair the colour of honey, and the sort of face that smiled a lot and laughed even more. She was strongly built, if quite short, with a large bosom and larger hips, and Larys had no trouble believing she had famously borne the Greatjon's six children. Looking at the size of the Greatjon, she almost shuddered at the thought of bearing children the size of their father- it took a hardy woman indeed to wed an Umber.

"My Lady," Jon bowed, kissing her hand, and Larys curtseyed again.

"My Lord and Lady Stark," Lady Nira smiled kindly, and for a second Larys was confused, thinking Eddard and Catelyn Stark were hiding behind the door- then she remembered that  _she_ was Lady Stark. "Excuse my husband's stupidity."

She held out a bowl of salt and hunk of bread, which they each ripped a piece of and dipped into the salt, and by eating it, they invoked guest right. Jon passed it on to Jory beside them, and as it made its way through the men, Jon craned his neck, searching the courtyard through the open door. Finally he found who he was looking for.

"Arya! Bran!" he called, beckoning them over when their heads turned away from the pony they were playing with.

Before travelling with them for a week, he might have been embarrassed, but he'd soon realised that with those two and their squabbles and antics, it was easier not to care. They ran over, Arya in a woollen dress muddied at the bottom, and they were immediately passed the bread and salt by one of the Stark men. They respectfully ripped and dipped, recognising the custom and its importance. Finally, they walked forward to stare up at the Greatjon, who peered down at them from his considerably height.

"If you grew a beard," he nodded to dark-haired Arya, then turning to red-haired Bran, "and you wore a dress, I'd think you were Ned and Cat."

The Hall burst into laughter at the children's looks of disgust and indignation, and even Jon smiled.

"Now that we've met the Starks, it's time for you to meet the Umbers," Lady Nira said, gesturing to the five others walking towards them.

The eldest of the group was a girl around fourteen, with long brown hair braided back and hazel eyes- she was a tall, busty girl, with a dimple toying at one cheek and a sweet smile. On either side of her were two identical boys, twins no doubt, with blonde mops of hair, fierce eyes and freckles. They were no older than Arya, but they already stood as tall as their mother. The fourth was a boy of perhaps six, with sharp, keen eyes under thick dark brows that made his stare all the more intense; he had a childish face, round with youth, and heavy brown hair that rested at his shoulders. The last was a tiny girl, comically small beside her Umber-tall siblings, with short blonde curls and wide, curious blue eyes, holding her sister's hand, but leaning forward as if tempted to poke Larys and see if she was real.

"This is Tacy," she said, gesturing to the eldest, as the Greatjon moved to direct the Stark men to the barracks. "The twins are Aiden and Arvin. This little lad is Ryden, but everyone calls him Roddy, and down there is Saede."

They all bowed, and Larys smiled; they could bow all they wanted, but she got the feeling they'd gut her if they wanted to. She and Jon nodded their heads, and Arya and Bran bowed. She could tell both the Stark and the Umber children were fascinated with each other, and itching to run off together.

Larys shivered happily when the door shut behind Jon and it was only them in their chambers. She strode forward and yanked him to her by the leather straps of his cloak. Looking at him then, all lordly and manly and demanding, practically set her on fire. Gods, she did like a man that was dominant. His gloved hands found her hips and pressed her against him, and she almost moaned at how dark his eyes had become. One hand went to the back of her neck and pulled her lips to his, and for a few moments it was all passion, the taste of him, the feel of his beard against her fingers and his chapped lips against hers, hot breath mingling in the cold room.

They broke apart, gasping, and she felt the primal need to be close to him, feel him on her; she gave him no respite, kissing his jaw, his neck, nibbling at his ear and biting at his throat. He let out a deep throaty groan that ran straight to her core, and it wasn't a moment before he'd thrown her onto the bed and taken her then and there.

That was one of Jon's better memories, he thought now, gripping the reins of his horse as his mind wandered to his wife, all her soft curves and the intoxicating scent of the perfumed oils she dabbed onto her wrists and neck every morning- she put it on more intimate places too, he remembered, eyes glazed.

He shook the buxom woman out his head, sitting straighter and eyeing the forest west of the road. This was no laughing matter. It was very likely they would come across wildlings here. He couldn't expect his men to stay alert unless he did the same.

When they set up camp later that night, as another group was taking the night patrol, he stretched his leg out, staring at the fire, wondering at how he'd come so far in so short a time. The thought was punctuated when a soldier passed him a strip of salted pork with a nod and 'milord'. In all honesty, they hadn't been his men until the second day at Last hearth.

A scout had ridden his horse half-dead to his Lord, with news of a group of wildlings north of the keep. Greatjon had given him two cups of wine before he'd been able to wrangle out of him why he was so scared. They were Thenns. The fiercest warriors wildlings had to offer, clad not in furs but bronze and steel, fazed by nothing, and the enemy amongst enemies for House Umber. The Greatjon's own cousin, Jocelyn, had been kidnapped by them years before. All any of them could hear were her screams in their heads as they barked at their men to ready their swords and horses.

But Jon was thinking; no matter how many men and how many horses they had, no doubt some of them would die. This wasn't a few stragglers, this was an organised, armed group no doubt expecting to be found, Thenns no less. If Jon could convince the Umbers to spare but a few moments to  _think_ , then perhaps there would be fewer casualties for them. He hardly dared though; the Umbers had been fighting wildlings since long before Jon was born, they would not take kindly to being told what to do by one who'd never seen a wildling in his life.

So to put his worries to rest, he'd further questioned the scout, who'd been tossed aside once he'd revealed the location and number of the Thenns. He was calmer now, and remembered clearer. The men were drinking, he said, eating by the fire, some squabbling, and a few taking turns with a village girl. But what struck Jon the most was that they'd had no one on watch. Thenns were supposed to be the most organised of wildlings, governed by a central office and laws. What wildling rested at ease in Umber lands? In fact, who rested at all in Umber lands?

He'd had a bad feeling from the moment he sent the scout away. It stuck with him as he kissed Larys goodbye in the privacy of their rooms, and waved at his cousins and host. He whispered to Jory to bring fifteen horsed Stark men, and the Umbers hardly blinked an eye when he joined them. Amongst them was Mors Crowfood, whose daughter had been the one kidnapped. No, they would not listen to him. He'd have to do something himself.

So Jon hung back, and when they finally reached the forest, sent ten of his men and Jory to go East and circle back. And it saved their lives.

When the fighting had erupted, what meant to be a massacre of unprepared men, turned out to be a well-matched fight between the two groups. It seemed the wildlings had a certain low cunning, and had faked their drinking and whoring so the Umbers would underestimate them. And underestimate them they had- there was a chance they would lose.

Jon had thought killing his first man would resonate with him, but it hadn't. In the blur of swords and shields and flying blood, he hardly noticed when he slit a man's throat. The blood sprayed over his face, and he whirled is horse around, riding down another before his steed met an axe and he fell to the ground. He rolled out of the way of a sword, leapt to his feet, and fought on. In the corner of his eye he saw the Greatjon fighting like a madman, swinging his great sword like it was a twig, locked in combat with a massive Thenn as tall as him. And in that moment, Jon saw a line of wildlings emerge from the trees, armed with bows that would be the death of them all. And behind them, a group of charging Thenns all built like bulls, axes and swords waving, their screams and hollers filling the air, and Jon knew they were fucked, unless it worked.

Distracted as he was, a fist flew through the air and into his face, and he stumbled, spat out a bloody tooth, before fiercely swinging his sword at the Thenn, parrying every one of his blows until his head fell at Jon's feet. He wasted no time, running to the corpse of his horse and digging through the bags just as more wildings swept down the hill and crashed into what was left of the northmen. He ripped the horn from the carcass, and with madness dancing in his eyes, stood tall and blew it with all his might. They all faltered as the low note echoed through the glade, but the northmen recovered quicker, as the Greatjon finally tore off his enemies ear with his teeth and another scream joined the sounds of battle.

Just as the northmen had begun to falter under the unexpected numbers, the thud of many hooves echoed through the trees, and the blessed Stark riders burst from the trees and ran down the wildlings like they were butter. Moments later, the battle was over as suddenly as it had begun.

In the aftermath, walking through the dead to count just how many wildlings there had been and who he'd lost, it was as if it was all a dream. He went through the motions, helped pile the bodies to burn, bandaged his wounds, and met with the Greatjon away from the sight and smell of death. The man himself sat on a tree stump, discovered in blood and smelling of sweat, drinking deeply from a horn of ale- the head of a Thenn lay gaping at his feet.

"Jon Stark," he rumbled, and when he looked up, he was grinning ruefully. "We'd have been right buggered if it wasn't for that horn of yours."

Jon nodded his head solemnly.

"You do yourself an injustice, my Lord," he said, with the smallest of smiles. "With a face likes yours they'd be half-way to the Wall before the buggering ever began."

That drew a very surprised laugh from the Greatjon. He decided then and there he very much liked Jon Stark.

After that it had been a simple matter of riding back to Last Hearth, slower now that they had wounded, and finding Larys waiting for him. She stood with all the grace of a Lady and all the power of a Queen, but when they reached the privacy of their rooms, the dam broke. She leaped at him and clung with both her arms and legs and for a moment Jon felt as though they were just a boy and girl in love once more. She did not shame him by fussing over his scratches, but instead slept by his side as if she knew all he wanted was the warmth of her presence and the silence night brought.

From there on respect was easy to come by. Amongst his own men, he was a hero, more so than he wished, but enough that they forgot he was once a Snow, forgot the insult of being sent to serve him, and rode with all the pride of a thousand knights behind him. They did not question his decisions, they did not question his orders, and so life went on and Queenscrown grew larger on the horizon.

When they first arrived, he'd been surprised by how far along the keep was. In fact it was more a town, with several families waiting for his arrival. Amongst them was a cook, a smith, and a steward name Alvar. It seemed everything had been set up for them. But it was not so, and the next fortnight were filled with more work than he ever imagined went into being a Lord. He thanked the Gods Larys was so competent, as she shouldered the task of running the Keep- that meant appointing reliable staff, counting stocks, organising meal times, and housing the various villagers that had followed them on their journey North. He was occupied with scouting the area, pouring over maps, arming his men, organising patrols, sending letters, and assessing the land and harvest.

Jon had always known Larys was born to be a Lady- even as a seductive Dornish maiden, she'd been serious and professional when the situation called for it. She had a certain confidence and surety that meant the men soon forgot she was a woman and hurried to fulfil her demands. He however, despite her reassurances, had always assumed he would not fit the role very well. Obviously he abhorred the idea of relying on his pregnant wife, so it had come as a huge relief when ruling came a little easier than anticipated. Jon did not enjoy the long sessions where he'd listen to the various problems of various people, but the sense of achievement and purpose made of for it. He was making his own way, away from Winterfell, and was truly helping to better the lives of the people that lived here.

If only the Night's Watch would agree.


	7. Kill the Bastard

** **

** Kill the Bastard **

Arya sighed as Bran threw the stone with all his might. It landed with a solid plop, water reaching like a fist for the sky.

"You did it wrong, stupid," she said irritably. "Watch."

She lifted her own stone and expertly flicked her wrist, sending it skipping over the still water. She felt her eyelids droop and knew she was thoroughly bored. The repetition was like a drum beating against her skull. How Larys did such monotone tasks was beyond her. The woman spent all her time organising Queenscrown, finding housing for the heavy stream of villagers seeking protection, listening to reports made by Jory on wildlings, counting coppers and writing ledgers with the steward Pennell, rebuilding the ancient holdfast. Only a fortnight ago Queenscrown had been a lump of unrefined steel; Larys had fired it, turned it, moulded it, and polished it into shining gold. The endless supply of furs and tapestries from her uncle had turned the holdfast into a home. The floors were covered with thick bear pelt, the walls furnished with tapestries regaling legendary tales of love and woe. Torches flickered like fire flies and the hearth burned bright.

Arya stared at Queenscrown, rising from the willows across the lake. Larys would be there. But Jon wouldn't.

He'd left for the Wall, to meet with the Lord Commander. Arya had been furious- half the reason she and Bran had been so eager to travel North was so they'd see the great ice miracle. And suddenly, it was of absolute importance that Jon went alone. But then Larys had pulled her to the side and whispered in her ear.  _Jon needs to do this alone,_  she'd whispered,  _so that he can prove he is more than his what wife and true born family make him_. That had confused Arya- of course Jon was more than that. Jon was Jon. She'd told Larys so, but the woman had shaken her head with a rueful smile, passing a hand over the small swell of her belly as she'd recently been wont to do.  _Now he is Lord Stark,_  she'd said firmly,  _Jon Snow is dead._

Arya wasn't sure what to make of that. Jon Snow was the one that played horses with her, that taught her how to whistle, that pulled faces at her from across the hall. Would Jon Stark do the same?

Bran jerked his head up mid-throw, and the stone dropped with a decisive thump.

"You're  _hopeless_ ," she scoffed.

"Shut up," he said mildly.

He stared fixedly at Queenscrown. Arya grew impatient, unable to see what he was looking at.

"What?"

He didn't answer, turning around and scaling the huge willow behind them like a spider. He disappeared, hidden by the swaying leaves, until his head poked out from the highest branches. His face, shadowed by the sun, broke into a grin.

"It's Jon!"

Dropping the stones she was holding, Arya ran without a second thought. The indignant yells of Bran were whispers in the wind as she flew onto the path and around the lake, Queenscrown growing bigger and bigger. She leapt over wagons and shocked farmers, sprinting like her tail was on fire. Behind her were echoes of her own feet as Bran followed in her dust filled wake.

Bursting through the open gates, the shouts of traders and guards erupted from around them, but the two were occupied with the tired man astride a black horse.

"Jon!"

Their screams drew a haggard smile from the Lord, and he dismounted to greet them. Instead of the bow and curtsy appropriate of two Starks, Arya and Bran bowled into their brother with war-cries.

"Hey, hey," Jon laughed. "I haven't been gone that long, have I?"

"It's been  _two weeks_!" Arya exclaimed. "That's long!"

"What was it like?" Bran asked eagerly. "Did you see any white-walkers?"

Jon listened with patience, answering their wild questions with a smile. But Gods was he exhausted. He'd slowly begun to realise what he'd thought was a gift had turned to be a burden.

He still felt the glares of black-clad men boring into his back- the challenging gaze of the Lord Commander. Jon had sat beside him at dinner, at the high table where the men could better aim their death glares. They argued furiously, over what he did not doubt.

"The Watch lasted a thousand years before the Gift was given," Mormont finally boomed. "It will last a thousand after it is taken."

Jon had stonily drunk his ale, stomach writhing like a pit of snakes. His palms sweated in his gloves- he was a thief, no more. But nothing, not the ruthless bartering of the Lord Commander, not the snide comments of ser Alliser Thorne, or the sneers of boys half his age, had struck him so much as Maester Aemon.

He'd penned a letter to his wife, wanted to send it himself rather than give it to a servant, so that he might do something in this cold hell. Tying the letter to the raven's foot, he'd stopped breathing at the quiet shuffle of robes against the stone floor. The blind old man crept forward and deftly finished the knot Jon had been fumbling over. Jon bowed his head in thanks and made to leave, but those words had stopped him in his tracks.

"Kill the bastard, Stark," he'd said, voice strangely strong and unwavering. "Let the King be born."

Jon turned slightly, hair on the back of his neck rising. How had the blind man even known it was him?

"Lord," he corrected quietly. "You made a mistake."

Aemon turned his unseeing eyes upon him and Jon suddenly felt as though his soul was laid bare.

"I did not."

A breath left Jon's lips, rising like dragon breath. He was frozen, unsure of what to think. At last, he whirled around and left the room, heart thudding.

He listened to the nattering of his cousins now, smile stitched to his face like a ghastly doll. He ached to find Larys, tell her everything- complain about the Watch, hiss over his blisters, whisper quietly Aemon's words like the very sound of them might stoke the dragon fire within him.

He was no King. He was just Jon. Lord Jon now, but never King.

A cough from behind startled him, and he turned around, mildly irritated. It was Larys, dressed in a thick wool dress, cloaked in fur and wearing a smile. He strode forward and cupped her face, kissing her fiercely. His hair had fallen from its tie, mixing with her own curls like a dark wave. It fell like a curtain around them, and none could witness the passion of their embrace. He pulled back, breath mingling with hers in the cold air.

"I have missed you," he murmured.

"It has been a fortnight," she whispered back, smiling teasingly. Her hands had come to rest easily on his belt.

He nuzzled her face, and she closed her eyes, shuddering as his warm breath fanned over her face. Heat pooled in her tummy and she felt suddenly warm and comfortable.

"Come," she breathed. "Save it for our chambers."

He grinned wolfishly at the connotations, obediently pulling away. The villagers hastily returned to their work, but they had witnessed the love between their Lord and Lady.

His men had already dispersed to their own barracks for a well-deserved rest, and Larys nodded at Pennell to whisk away the horses and supplies. Larys took his hand and lead him into the tower, nodding when the guards at the doors bowed. Jon watched with mild astonishment as maid after maid, servant after servant, bowed to them as they walked past. It seemed word of his military successes and Larys' natural ruling ability had garnered them respect.

The tower was far different from what he'd remembered. Before, it had been a cold stone tower that housed a queen and would now house Dragonspawn and his wife. Now, looking at the warmth of the rugs and torches and tapestries, he saw the home he would live and grow old in, love his wife in, raise his children in. What Larys had achieved in so short a time was incredible.

"You are amazing," he said as the door of their chambers closed behind them.

He watched as she took off her cloak, loosened her dress, and stepped out of it. She stood in the middle of the room, bathed in the warmth of the blazing fire. Her shift was white and thin, holding her ample bust by thin straps, draping around her waist like a Goddess. He swallowed, following the smooth rise and fall of her breasts, the hollow of her throat, the curve of her waist and hip. Her skin was sun-kissed, retaining its golden hue even this far North, and flawless; a blank canvas that had been free of his attentions for far too long.

Jon dropped his cloak, eyes darkening as Larys' dainty hands helped remove his leather armour. They were small and smooth against the rough white of his own larger hands. He touched her hair, combing it with his fingers, dizzy with the sweet, heavy scent of it. His eyes ran over her face- the full red lips curled into a soft smile, the curve of her cheek, the wide brown of her eyes, the bold line of her brow, the gentle slope of her nose, Gods was she beautiful and Gods did he want her.

He pulled her close to him, kissing her face, her eyes, her nose, her hair. She sighed softly, tilting her head back with a moan as he bit at her neck. She shivered, pressing her chest against his, the thin shift the only barrier between them. He could feel the frantic beat of her heart beside his, drumming a tempo that grew faster and faster, louder and louder.

* * *

Larys lay curled into Jon's side, face dazed and pleased. He was a magnificent lover, with his chiselled body and half-starved, relentless well of desire. His honour and dignity never made it to the bedroom, and she found more and more that she adored the animalistic, wolfish man that snarled at her when she played with his cock. Her body was littered with his attentions, skin decorated with teeth marks and bruises.

He lay with his head buried into her neck, broad back protecting her from the cold draft of the window. His hair was loose from its normal knot, a mass of heavy curls, so similar to her own, that had grown long. They brushed his shoulder like a dark mane, tickling her breasts, and more and more she saw the wolf in him. But there was dragon blood too. It was in the arch of his brow, the high cheekbones, the tapering of broad chest to slim waist, the passion he bled when loving her. Even now, she was drowning in the heat pouring from his body. But she found she enjoyed burning.

A knock at the door, and she made to rise, but he growled, half-asleep, hand resting protectively on her swollen belly. She smiled, brushing his hair from his brow and kissing his temple.

"I must go," she whispered. "The new Maester is here."

He sighed, blinking his eyes open, and she watched in awe as his pupils shrank and grew in the light of dawn, adrift in a grey sea. They fell onto her and grew until all she could see was the warm dark of his eyes. He ran a hand down the side of her face and she felt an aching within her to stay with him and never leave.

"Yes," he murmured, voice heavy with sleep. "Duty."

He rose, and despite the bitterness in his tone, his face was relaxed and free of the worry lines he'd born.

They dressed in silence, and the door was opened to Pennell the steward.

"My Lord, my Lady," he bowed. "A raven has come."

Larys shared a look with Jon. Apparently it wasn't the new Maester. Jon took the slip of paper from Pennell's hand, and they retreated back into the room and the study adjoined. He sat and unfurled it, and she rested her chin on his shoulder, hair falling around them like a cloak.

"Jon," he read. "I have heard of the progress you and Larys have made, and I could not be prouder to call you my son. Benjen sent a raven himself and told me of the respect you have earned of your men."

Larys squeezed Jon's side, knowing those words left him bittersweet. Lying to Benjen had taken its toll on him, she knew- he was the son of the sister he loved and the man he hated. The one man that had understood Jon best would never know who his nephew truly was, and that was hard.

"We have received news from Kings Landing," Larys continued. "Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, is dead. King Robert and Queen Cersei make their way to Winterfell as we speak, and bring the whole of court with them."

Larys gasped quietly and Jon tensed.

"They mean to make him Hand of the King," she muttered, astonished, before shaking her head and continuing. "Catelyn wishes for Arya and Bran to be here when they arrive in around a month. I would hope that you would both be here as well. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."

"And soon to be Hand of the King," Jon said bitterly, dropping the slip and running and hand down his face.

Larys straightened, brushing a speck of dust from his shoulder.

"He may be able to refuse," she said mildly. "Although I doubt it. Fat King Robert always gets as he wants."

Jon turned to stare at her in surprise.

"You often forget I am Dornish," she said with a rueful smile. "We are an angry people Jon, a vengeful people. We have not forgotten Elia."

She felt him tense, face frozen at the mention of the woman his father had spurned, his own step-mother. She played with a lock of his hair, unbound.

"But it does not matter," she said finally. "I am Northern now. Dorne is not where my allegiance lies. You are, and Eddard. So we will go, and we will smile and laugh and bow and curse the man that loved your mother only when she was dead."

She drew herself up, and in the light of a cold new day, he saw a Queen, proud and unforgiving, and was glad she loved him and did not hate him.


	8. Allegiance

****  


**Allegiance**

Larys watched Jon. He sat astride his horse, looking back at the bustling town of Queenscrown behind them. It had grown so fast.

His horse, black as night, tossed its head, and Jon silently turned around and led the progression south, Larys riding beside him.

"We will be back soon," she reminded him.

"I know," he murmured.

It was where he had come to be his own man, away from the shadow of Robb and Catelyn Stark. And he had a dark foreboding feeling in his heart.

Larys stared blankly at the rolling hills and mountains, at Arya and Bran racing each other up and down the line of horses. A tiny whisper in the back of her mind, so quiet and small. It hid behind the roaring wind, her slow breathing, the pounding of blood in her ears.

_Turn back._

She strained to hear it, shuddering. Turn back where, to Queenscrown? Or Haven as the inhabitants were calling it- a haven from a life of rape and plunder, from poverty, from fear.

But why would they turn back now? What could possibly be a danger to them in Winterfell?

* * *

Larys sighed in frustration, glaring at the dresses the maid had aired for her. One was in the southern, courtly style, dark and heavy as the Queen wore, rich and velvet. The second was modestly northern, a deep green, with long flowing sleeves and a tight waist. The last was Eastern with Dornish elements- white and loose, crossing the back and shoulders with brown leather ropes, cinching in at the waist.

"What?"

She didn't turn at Jon's voice, just rested her hands on her hips with a frown.

"I don't know which to wear."

"Does it matter?" He asked in confusion.

She turned around with an unamused look.

"You'd think you married a broomstick rather than a woman," she said, rolling her eyes. "The dress I choose reflects my allegiance. The red one is in the courtly style, meaning I am loyal to Cersei. The green means my faith lies entirely in the North. The white reminds them of my origins. Which to choose?"

Jon paused think, rubbing his neck.

"I'd have thought the northern," he shrugged.

She shook her head slowly and strode forward to lift the Eastern dress.

"They must know I am no ordinary Lady. That I am dornish, eastern, entirely free of their hold. I am no pawn."

She answered the question she knew Jon was too polite to ask.

"I will braid my hair in the Northern style," she said with a smile.

She felt him move behind her and kiss her neck softly, lips cold.

"I have found the two go well together," she said softly.

* * *

Larys stood before the looking glass with a satisfied smile. She looked good, she knew. A hot scented bath, oils, and perfumes had done her good. It had eased away the morning sickness and tenderness of her larger breasts, and turned her skin smooth, golden and glowing. Her eyes sparkled and her red stained lips curled smugly.

Her hair, as she had promised Jon, was long and shining, braided back in the Northern style. She'd threaded gold thread through the braid, and it gleamed quietly amidst her curls. Her breasts were heavy and soft, straining against the soft white dress that held them. Painful and tender in the light of her pregnancy.

She wore no jewellery but a thin gold chain with a tiny diamond around her neck. It was important that she looked elegant, but also uncaring. The royals would remember her not only for her beauty, but for her wit.

With a firm nod, she lifted her heavy cloak, draping it over her shoulders and pulling her hair free and onto the soft white fur.

The door slammed open and she whirled around, astonished. Her hand snatched up the thin dagger on the table, but she dropped it almost immediately.

"Arya," she sighed. "You can't barge in like that."

Larys shuddered to think if she'd been with Jon. No doubt if he was here he'd bed her, again. Not that she was complaining.

The girl dumped her sulking behind onto the bed, pouting.

"Sansa is being horrible," she snarled. "She and mother are trying to make me look like them."

Larys eyed the girl's rumpled dress and knotted hair.

"Come here," she said finally, pointing to the chair beside the looking glass.

"Why?" asked Arya suspiciously.

"Come here," Larys repeated.

Something in her tone made Arya obey, and she sat down as instructed. Larys stood behind her and rested her hands on the girl's shoulders, smiling at their reflection.

"How about I do your hair?" she said innocently.

Arya rolled her eyes.

"I  _just_ said I was annoyed with Mother and Sansa for that."

"Yes," Larys acquiesced, "But I'll do it better."

She lifted a wide tooth comb from her table and began to carefully pull apart Arya's hair.

"You hate being a Lady," Larys began. "Why?"

Arya winced as a knot was tugged, but was strangely still.

"I can't do the things I want to. I want to fight and ride horses, but I have to sew and sing. It's so  _boring_. Sansa enjoys it, but..."

She hesitated, cheeks flushing, and looked away from Larys' reflection.

"I'm bad at it."

Larys let the corners of her mouth turn up ever so slightly. Something in that smile resonated with Arya.

"I'm ugly," she burst out. "I'm short, my hair is stupid and brown, my eyes are like mud, I look like a  _boy._ I can't sew, or run a household, or walk gracefully, or play the harp, or sing, or paint. I don't know how to curtsey, smile prettily or dance. I don't know  _how_ to be a Lady."

Larys ran the comb through Arya's now smooth hair, holding back sudden tears. How could this feisty girl not see herself as Larys saw her? As Jon saw her?

"You know," Larys said quietly. "You look like Lyanna. And Lyanna was so beautiful the kingdoms were torn apart to win her. But I think you are not one to be won. You are a fighter. And no empty beauty, fake smiles, and silly songs will ever beat you."

Her deft hands rubbed light oils and rose-water through Arya's hair. The girl stared at her, stunned.

"How could I ever be beautiful? Or fight?"

Larys began to weave Arya's shining hair into an intricate bun at her neck. It curled softly in her hands, soft and silken where it had been coarse.

"A diamond in the rough," Larys smiled, eyes sparkling. "And diamonds can never be broken."

Larys finished, and took three pins from her chest. Each had a blue diamond rose at the end, and she tucked them into Arya's hair. She dabbed a little rose stain onto the girls pale lips, smoothed out her brows and cleaned the smudges from her face. Arya took off her dress obediently, shivering in her shift, looking so small.

Larys silently dug through her old chest, filled with dresses long since too small for her. At last she found it. A pale grey dress made of satin, unadorned and simple, but smooth in her hands. The material slipped past her fingers as she pulled it over Arya's head, tying the laces at the back. Where the girl had always worn dresses shaped to suit her sister, this dress had been Larys', who had once been as skinny and coltish as her. It was loose, drawn in at the waist with a thin belt.

At last, she led the girl to a full length looking glass, standing beside her with a proud smile.

"Do you see what I see?"

Arya stared with wide eyes at the girl looking back at her. Her face was still long, but the loose style of her bun made it look pretty rather than horse-like. Where she had been skinny and short, she was now slim and petite. But she still felt a little empty.

"But I don't want to be a Lady," she said to Larys, unaware she was holding the woman's hand. "I want to fight."

"You don't want to be Sansa," Larys corrected gently. "Who you are is up to you. Why can you not be both?"

* * *

Larys held back a grimace as they waited for the king to arrive. She stood beside Jon, who was in turn beside his Uncle. It was strange, she thought, to see him taller than Ned, with blacker hair and a colder stare. All at once, he both looked like Ned and looked nothing like him.

On Ned's other side was Cat, and here Larys let herself smile. From nowhere, she and the other Lady Stark had spent a lot of time together. Whether talking seriously on running a household, or the benefits of having a boy or girl, Larys found her face ache from smiling. It was so lovely to have a woman who'd been through what she was going through countless times, to hear her advice that dealt with matters too intimate for a Maester. The older woman could have so easily resented Larys for marrying Jon, but instead she'd taken her under her wing.

Larys had never thought she was missing something until she experienced what it was like to have someone care, almost like a Mother. She shouldn't be putting too much value to a woman that likely thought nothing of their interactions, but it meant a lot to Larys.

She was started from her thoughts when Jon's hand squeezed hers, hidden by their cloaks. She gripped his hand as hard as she could, holding back a smile when his cold mask faltered into one of laughter. The man who was the sole reason Jon could not be who he was, did not grow with a mother , did not grow with a father, was outside the gates of Winterfell. But Larys was determined to stop Jon from sinking back into silence.

Standing very close to him, it was easy to press his gloved hand to the side of her tummy, and she watched with baited breath as his eyes crinkled up in pride and his cheeks turned the lightest pink. Little things that were hidden once, she could now read like a book.

Silence reigned as they waited for the King- the courtyard seemed to grow colder and colder. Her face had slowly melted into a confident mask but her insides writhed like snakes.

At last, there were cries of arrival, and the heavy oak gates were slowly opened. With every foot the groaning wood raised higher, Larys' heart sunk lower and lower. She felt Jon tense beside her, saw his jaw clench- he gripped her hand like a lifeline.

Larys tilted her chin up in defiance. She would not be afraid of Fat King Robert.

First to ride through the gates were the Kingsguard, recognised by their splendid white cloaks, and with them a huge man on a poor horse. As he rode forward and dismounted, she realised with growing hysteria he was King Robert.

She knelt swiftly with the Starks, swallowing back the sudden laughter that threatened to burst out- she blamed the pregnancy- at the sight of the man. He looked like an inflated pig bladder wearing silk.

When they rose, Jon and Larys waited patiently for the King to greet them, watching in silence as each of the Stark children were greeted in turn. When he reached them, at last, Larys steeled herself.

Robert assessed the man in front of him, the son of his closest friend. Jon Stark stood taller than his father, colder, and he held back a shiver at those eyes. But Robert had heard this was a good man, a competent man. He was certainly more impressive than his trueborn brother, Robert realised. How awkward it must be for Catelyn that she gave Ned a boy where another had given him a man.

He nodded in greeting to the newly legitimised Stark, knowing he had not made a mistake granting Ned his wish. Rarely had Lord Stark ever asked his King for anything, so it was simple that he give him the one thing he did ask for.

Here, Robert turned to the woman Ned had mentioned, with surprise. She was a beautiful woman, very curvy, with a bust that had his mouth run a dry. Her hair was raven, her skin like gold, and she stared back at him with fiery, calculating eyes. A dornish woman, he realised bitterly. It seemed the damned sand dogs haunted him even here.

But he kissed her hand, eyed her swollen belly and breasts without reserve, and stepped away from the two that seemed estranged from the Starks, but also more wolf than any children Catelyn Tully had born.

Cersei stepped from the carriage, glancing uncaringly at the castle. How disappointing. Truly the North was different from the South. Everything here was cold and stone and ugly.

She stepped forward, into view of the Starks, watching proudly as her children, golden-haired and Lannister, stepped after her. Lord Stark kissed her hand, and a thought ran through her mind- how different her life would have been had it been him she had married. But it was gone as soon as it came and she assessed his fish wife, a low point in Stark history she was sure. At the very least, the Starks, like the Lannisters, were an ancient house, a Great House, with a snarling wolf as their sigil. The Tully's however, were laughable. Trout for it's sigil and trout for it's women.

The heir, Robb was his name she believed, kissed her hand reverently, and she realised with no surprise he was just as entranced by her beauty as many other little boys. He was handsome, red-haired and blue-eyed, and she could tell Myrcella would be smitten, but he looked as stupid as a simpleton. The girl beside him only confirmed her thoughts, pretty, with air for brains and gazing at her like she was a goddess. Pawns in the making.

Suddenly, she remembered there was a new Lord Stark. He was very handsome, in a haunting way. Something in the curve of his lips, the shape of his eyes and fall of his hair reminded Cersei of something she couldn't quite pinpoint. As he kissed her hand with cold lips, she wondered how Catelyn felt about her husband's bastard, who looked more like his father than Robb, who was now Lord Stark. A weak woman- Robert would die before a single one of his bastard saw the Iron Throne.

She stepped back, allowing them all to appreciate her beauty and presence, and eyed the bastard's dornish wife. She was pretty in a dark sort of way, with a body like a whore's, and eyes like black stars. Nothing on her, but better looking than Sansa, and she would certainly bear her husband many children. How on earth could Tully stand to have the man and woman that represented everything she had not given Eddard Stark live beside her? Foolish woman should never have allowed two strangers replace her.

Cersei had a growing feeling that Jon and Larys Stark would either be the making of House Stark, or the fall of it.


	9. Ghosts

**Ghosts**

Two days into the Royal visit, and a call came for Lord Eddard Stark. A deserter of the Night's Watch had been captured.

Lord Stark had asked King to execute the man, but Robert, in true fashion, scoffed and said this was Northern business. Ned had clenched his jaw and nodded stiffly- that was half the problem. The Night's Watch was the responsibility of the realm.

Jon rode beside his Uncle as they made their way back through the Wolfswood. He was deep in his own mind, thinking heavily on what the terrified man had said. White-walkers, returned to the world. Bullshit, the men had scoffed, and even his Uncle had shaken his head, but Jon couldn't shake the feeling there was more to what he'd said than hysterical fear.

He knew better than most that anything could happen.

A shout ahead from Robb and Bran, and he shared a look with Ned. Not a moment later he dug his feet into the haunches of his steed, galloping over logs and rocks, rounding a corner and gasping when his horse reigned up in fear.

He dismounted, stepping forward carefully. Half-buried in bloodstained snow, a huge dark shape slumped in death. Ice had formed in its shaggy grey fur, and the faint smell of corruption clung to it like a woman's perfume. Jon glimpsed blind eyes crawling with maggots, a wide mouth of yellowed teeth. But it was the size of it that made him shiver.

"Direwolf," he murmured eyes wide.

"Father, look!" cried Bran.

They were startled from their fearful awe, and looked up to see what Bran was holding. In his arms, a ball of fluff that Jon realised with tired surprise was a pup. And as his eyes moved from Bran to Robb, he realised there were at least four.

"Kill them!" Rodrick Cassel barked. "This is a bad omen."

"Give it here," Theon said with a sickening smile, reaching forward.

"No!" exclaimed Bran, holding the wriggling pup to his chest. "It's mine!"

Jon walked forward slowly and wearily, stepping over the poor beast's legs and kneeling beside his cousins. A mass of squirming wolf-pups, pawed at his knees, and he felt his heart reluctantly melt. As the group argued fiercely, Jon counted quietly.

"My lord," said Jon suddenly, and they fell silent.

"Yes, Jon?" asked Ned, and his face was sad, as if he knew what he was going to say.

"There are five pups," he said levelly. "Three boys and two girls. One for every child your wife has born you. The Direwolf is the sigil of the Starks- your children were meant to have these pups, my lord."

They waited in silence as Ned and Jon stared at each other. Both of their gazes held the same resigned sadness, solemn and reserved.

Lord Stark turned suddenly to Bran.

"You train them yourselves, you feed them yourselves, and if they die, you'll bury them yourselves," he commanded.

Bran nodded fervently. Robb triumphantly claimed his own, and Jon let himself smile a little. Another sign of how different he was from his cousins, but they were happy. He lifted one sat on his foot by the scruff of the neck handing it to Jory.

Ned had knelt beside the direwolf's head, frowning.

"What could kill such a beast?" he asked himself, receiving no answer.

Ned dug around the wolf's neck, before pulling with a sickening squelch. An antler, sharp as a sword and slick with blood.

Jon stiffened. Was it a coincidence that the first time a direwolf had been seen this far south it had been killed by a stag, the sigil of the King that currently lounged in their halls?

They mounted their horses, unnerved. And just as he turned to ride away, a noise made him freeze. He looked to see if anyone else had heard. There was no indication they had, so he shook his head and gripped the reins.

But there it was again- a snuffling, almost indistinguishable. He swung from his saddle and strode back to the carcass, ignoring the startled looks of his companions.

There, a little while away from its mother, was a pup. Fur as white as snow and eyes a haunting red, it looked up at Jon without a sound. He lifted it, feeling a strange sort of thrill in his gut.

"This one is mine," he said firmly.

* * *

Larys sat happily on the window sill, Ghost nestled in her lap. He was so adorable, a fluffy little thing with tiny teeth and big eyes. His wet nose snuffled at her hand, pushing his paws into her thigh and gently bumping his head to her belly. He knew she was with child, Jon's child, she did not doubt.

Jon had warned he might not like her, that it might not be safe to trust a direwolf in her state. But she knew he did not believe his own words even as he said them, and neither did she. Ghost had taken to her as easy as he had to Jon, and seemed to spend most of his time with her. Perhaps this was because she was soft and warm and sweet-smelling, where Jon was hard and muscled and smelt of leather and horse. But no one could doubt the bond between Jon and Ghost. It was nothing like the bond between dog and master- it was almost like Ghost was an extension of Jon himself, tracing his steps like a shadow. So it only made sense that Ghost loved Larys as much as Jon did.

Something was troubling Larys. Something Fat King Robert had done had set her mind churning. As soon as the man finished leering at her, he'd spurned his cold, beautiful wife and ordered Ned to show him to the crypts. Because, Cat had explained to Larys, Robert loved Lyanna more than he loved his wife.

It had never truly occurred to her that her own good-mother resided beneath the walls of Winterfell. Jon's mother, the woman who's beauty drove men mad, who died when the war to win her was done. Some said she died from loneliness, some said from the death of her prince, but Larys knew it was birthing her son that stained Lady Targaryen's sheets red.

The woman had always seemed so distant to Larys. A character from a story-tale, a princess she'd never need to dwell on. A tragic life that drew frowns but never tears. Larys was flesh and blood, Jon was flesh and blood, and Lyanna Stark was bones and rot.

Ghost suddenly sat up, nuzzling at her breasts with sad little snuffles, and Larys stroked his head softly- did he miss his mother?

Finally she slipped off her perch, tucking Ghost into her arms, and began to walk. Twenty seven steps to the stairs, fourteen down to the hall, eighteen to the doors. Thirty across the courtyard, forty nine through the Godswood and seven to the crypts.

Here she paused, holding the warm pup to her chest too reassure herself. It was cold, the Godswood empty. The wind howled behind her, like the spirits of Starks long dead. She took a deep breath and began to walk down those steep steps.

Light seemed to die three steps down, and her breath clouded in front of her. One hand kept a white-knuckled grip on Ghost's fur, the other flat against the damp stone wall. She imagined tripping and falling, down down, crash at the bottom. Fifty steps down? A hundred? A thousand? Maybe she would fall, keep falling, and never stop.

Her breath quickened and her blood pounded in her ears. Her eyes were wide and panicked, but she could see nothing, only the heavy darkness that drowned her. If she fell, who would find her body? How would Jon know? And her baby? Would he crawl from her corpse like Ghost did? Shuffle deeper and deeper into the catacombs until he was swallowed by death and stagnation?

She let loose a dry sob, stopping on the steps as she was overcome with images of a purple, bloated thing tearing apart her insides and biting apart the cord that connected them. The shadows spun around her and she sat suddenly on the steps, burying her face in a distressed Ghost's fur.

Larys took calming breaths, eyes squeezed shut. What was she doing? She was Larys Stark, Larys  _Targaryen_. She was not silly little girl to be scared by ghosts. They were dead, all dead, life snuffed out like a candle, and by the Gods they  _could not hurt her._

She began by sliding down one step, refusing to stand lest she did fall. Because that was a very real fear. Another step, and another, and she soon began to realise the stairs were not so steep when you were this low.

At last she lowered herself onto the cold stone floor with a thump, breathing heavily. She closed her eyes for a moment before heaving herself up by the rail, resting a hand on her swollen belly. Ghost pressed himself against her leg, half hidden by her skirts.

The crypts were better lit than the stairs had been. Torches dotted the walls -a small part of her wondered who'd lit them- casting an eerie glow on the stone tombs. She took a few tentative steps forward, holding her breath, looking up at the imposing statues of ancient kings. Their faces were smooth and unrecognisable, worn away by time, but in their hands were rusted swords and at their feet snarling direwolves. She looked down at tiny Ghost and wondered how big he'd be.

Feeling a little braver with every step, Larys hugged her arms to herself and walked slowly through the crypts, shivering in the dark. The statues stared down at her, judging with no mercy. She held her tummy protectively.

At last, the faces grew sharper and sharper until she thought she could recognise Jon's mouth, his ears, and finally, she stopped short, mouth dry.

The last statue was a woman, a sad woman. Her eyes were cast to the floor, face long and beautiful. Her despair was frozen in her blank stone eyes, her hands clasped before her in prayer, in fear, in promise.

Larys looked up at Lyanna Stark, licking her chapped lips, face grey.

"Why?" she whispered. "Why were you such... a fool?"

Larys waited, wondering briefly if the woman would answer. She clenched her fists, shaking her head fiercely. This was a dead woman, and dead women did not talk.

"A fool," she said firmly, eyes blazing. "You could have had it all if you hadn't wanted him."

She paused, and her bravado suddenly fled her. Her eyes fell to the floor before glancing back up again.

"Although," she said quietly. "I don't know what I would have done if I were you and Jon were Rhaegar..."

Ghost sat silently beside her, staring up at Lyanna stark with equal rapture. Larys linked her fingers tightly.

"I hope Jon is more wolf than dragon... I hope our boy is too."

Larys stared into Lyanna's eyes, feeling as though a thousand snakes writhed in her.

A calm silence fell, and Larys ran her eyes absently over her good-mother's face. She felt at peace, finally. She was still terrified, but for some reason, she did not want to leave.

A hand drifted up, and she silently touched Lyanna's face. Confused, she pulled back her hand, and studied her fingers. They were wet, water gleaming on her fingers. Suddenly and instinctively, she put her finger to her tongue.

At the same time she realised she tasted salty tears, her mind was split apart by a scream so tragic, so desperate, so filled with longing and madness, she reeled back and fell with a crash, letting loose her own scream of terror.

_Jon._

The voice, a woman's voice, screamed his name again and again, a terrible song that had Larys clasping her hands to her ears, her hair, her face.

"Stop!" she shrieked. " _Stop! "_

Larys wept in utter fear, scrambling away from the screaming, silent statue. Panic brought her to her feet and she ran faster than she'd ever run, screaming in terror, into the darkness and away from the damned corpse.

Throughout all this, Ghost sat on his rump, staring curiously up at the weeping statues of Lyanna. If Larys had stayed but a moment, she would have seen Ghost rest his paws on the woman's shoulders and lick away her tears, before following her out of the crypts.


	10. Brothers

**Brothers**

Larys weaved her way through the crowd, holding her breath so she wouldn't have to smell those stinking southerners. If there was one thing she could not stand, it was dirt, and Gods strike her down if there were a people filthier than the King and his entourage.

Even in Dorne, where the sun cooked the living and the floor felt like fire, the people bathed everyday- in the bath houses, the water gardens, rivers, even the sea. They doused themselves in perfumes, burnt incense, sprinkled rose-water on hair and clothes. And in the North, the weather was so cold you were more likely to freeze than sweat. But that only meant people voluntarily bathed in the hot spring water. But somehow, the southerners had managed to sweat in their stupid silks, and yet refused to wash the filth from their bodies. Some stank sharply, the sort of odour that made you gag. Others stank with the sort of stench that was masked by heavy, heady perfumes, like rotting fruit. Which was worse, she did not know.

She breathed freely in the cold, cold air. Had she worn another of her Dornish dresses she'd be freezing, but the initial image had been made, and now she comfortable in a long-sleeved northern dress. It was lined with rich white fur that stroked her neck and warmed her hands.

Larys started slightly when something warm sat on her foot, and she looked down with a sad smile.

"Hello there," she murmured to Ghost. "Good to see you."

The pup tilted his head to the side, staring at her with shining wide,  _intelligent_ eyes. She swallowed.

"Jon let you out, did he? You really should be in our rooms."

Although she was not deigned with a reply, her comment was valid. The Queen had developed her own personal hatred for the  _dogs_. Perhaps she should buy her children their own damn lions.

"I suppose you've been wondering where I've been," she sighed heavily. "I'm sorry I was so scared. How else was I supposed to react?"

He made a noise scarily similar to a scoff, and she raised a brow.

"I know, I know," she laughed, smiling softly. "I'll do better next time."

"You know he cannot understand you?"

Larys did not react, but her smile became subtly sharp.

"How would you know, ser? Have you asked him?"

Jaime Lannister stood beside her, and smiled charmingly. Her folded his hands into his pits, less to intimidate her, she knew and more to warm his hands.

"That is the most ridiculous thing I think I've heard in a while," he said, smirking. "And yesterday, Tommen asked me if cats got married."

"Best introduce him to the concept early," she said calmly. "Lest he get... other ideas."

She had a feeling Cersei Lannister had a lover, although she couldn't figure out who, and no doubt her other half knew.

"The Dornish woman tells me," he said sharply, eyes narrowing. "Tell me,  _my lady,_  just how many men have you had?"

Larys turned to face him fully, stepping forward until their noses almost touched.

"Why?" she whispered, warm breath fanning over his face. "Do you wish to be one of them?"

She licked her lips, very imperceptibly, and was satisfied to see his eyes flicker to her mouth.

"Shame, shame," she clucked, running a nail down his throat slowly and lightly. "You should remember who you are. Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard. The Young Lion."

Larys watched him swallow and leaned forward, letting him smell her, feel her warmth, and brushed his ear with her lips.

"Kingslayer."

She took a graceful step back, tilting up her chin smugly to see his eyes wide, pale cheeks lightly flushed. His eyes narrowed in anger, but his face remained calm.

"As should you," he said fiercely. "Wife to a bastard."

"My bastard," she smirked. "You may know him as Lord Jon Stark."

"My Father," he replied. "You may know him as Lord Tywin Lannister."

Larys paused, and her face lost all spiteful humour, replaced only with a cold, serious mask.

"I know of him," she said simply. "We Dornish know him very well. Not so well as the late Princess, for shame."

He flinched a little, but his face was fixedly triumphant. She reached up and straightened his collar, lightly scratching his throat with her ring. He did not flinch, but she saw the pulse in his neck strain against his skin.

"Winter is coming," she breathed, staring him down. "You would do well to remember."

Larys did not wait for a reply, and instead walked away with her head held high. Jaime Lannister watched her go, stunned, realising she was wearing fur, realising she did not shiver in the cold, realising the direwolf at her feet was bigger than he'd thought.

* * *

Larys leaned tiredly against the wall of the castle, closing her eyes in resignation.

"My Lady Stark, how fine you look this night."

Larys clenched her fists. Gods. Not the other one. What had she done that angered the Gods so?

"My Lord Tyrion," she said demurely, curtseying. "Surely there are better places to drink?"

The dwarf was sat slumped against the wall, wine-skin in one hand, hair ruffled and silks wrinkled. He smelt strongly of stale alcohol.

"Like a whorehouse!" he boomed, lifting his drink. "Excellent idea! Perhaps you can show me a trick or two?"

Larys pressed her lips together. Seducing Jaime Lannister meant political triumph; seducing Tyrion Lannister was like buying your own arm from a butcher.

"I am married, with child, Lady of the Gift," she said firmly. "I will show you to your rooms, no further."

He rolled his eyes.

"The two Lady Starks are very similar women," he said snidely, but he climbed to his feet.

She began to walk, slowing her pace to match his own wobble. Whether because of his drunken state or bowed legs, he seemed grateful and offered her the wine.

"No, thank you," she said with a reluctant smile.

Clearly an offer of wine from a man as addicted as Tyrion Lannister was tantamount to presenting her his seal of approval.

"What is it that made you leave the glorious realm of Dorne for this frozen wasteland?"

The question was sudden and she blinked in surprise.

"My family is here," she slowly. "There is nothing for me in Dorne. The North is barren only to the blind."

She wasn't quite sure why she said that. She wasn't offended he thought the North ugly, most did, and surely it was better that he and his kin under-estimate it's worth?

"I may be a dwarf but that does not make me blind," he nodded, taking a swig. "I pride myself on seeing the value of things."

"Except your own station apparently," she quipped. "A Lannister, a grown man, spending his days whoring and drinking. Tell me Tyrion Lannister, what makes you wake up in the morning?"

"The knowledge that every day I live, my father must suffer my presence that much longer," he laughed bitterly.

And why had he revealed that? Why let her know the cracks in House Lannister? It seemed a line had been crossed, but what was beyond it she did not know.

"Tywin Lannister is a cold man," she said finally.

"He is a child-killer," he slurred. "A murderer, a traitor, a heartless monster, but a damn good Lord. Seems that's all you need."

They had reached the door of his room, and Larys assessed him.

"Not all you need," she said, with the tiniest smile. "Not all."

* * *

Jon watched Theon and Robb eye up one of the maids, saw them laugh and make crude gestures. Nothing new- he may never have joined in, but he'd laughed along once. Now he was filled with a sort of melancholy because it was not so funny anymore. Jon Snow truly was dead.

_There you go Maester Aemon_ , he thought sourly to himself,  _I no longer know my own brother._

Cousin, he corrected sullenly. He didn't have any brothers. The brother he did have was smashed against a wall as a babe. Not pleasant.

Gods he needed a drink.

Why, why, why, had he let himself be persuaded to go on this stupid hunt? It was all a facade to make the King forget his five jiggling chins. It didn't even matter that he sounded like Larys, the man had ogled his wife while  _he_   _stood beside her_. The man might have been a warrior once, but now he was a whale. Warrior King. Whale King. Fat Whale Robert. He should be a bard. Maybe he could sing to the wildlings instead of fight them.

_Oh savage, put down your bow, for I have a tale you likely don't know..._

Jon watched Ned order Bran to stay home, gently patting his shoulder, promising they'd go riding when he returned.

_Oh savage, put down your sword, for I have a message to give to your Lord..._

Robert burst out laughing, slapping a servant on the arse. The poor, white-faced girl squeaked in terror and scuttled away. How could a man like that have destroyed a dynasty? Well, in that he had failed. Jon was still alive.

_Oh savage, let your King know, for I have an urge to burn down his throne..._


	11. Mother

** Mother **

Larys stroked Bran's hair, trying so hard not to cry. The boy sat still as stone, and she was reminded of the statues of kings of old, deep beneath Winterfell. How could this have happened?

The whole time the men had been on a hunt, Larys had been with Cat, laughing, smiling, trying and failing to think of baby names. Cat had even found it in her to truly laugh when Larys mentioned some of the terrible names Jon had suggested. And now the woman sat silent in her seat, despairing. Larys could only imagine what she felt. All she could do was be beside her as she suffered.

The only warning from the Gods was in the whispered cacophony in the back of her mind. But it had been there so long it was like background noise, a constant, almost comforting, buzz. Fall or fly, she thought she'd heard one say. But that meant nothing to her, as meaningless as the rest of them.

Even now, she wondered whether it had anything to do with Bran. He had fallen, so how could he fly? Luwin had said he'd never walk again, poor child. How could a boy with no legs, fly? She was no witch; she did not know what it meant, what she was supposed to do. The Gods clearly wanted her to do something, but  _what_?

Catelyn weaved the prayer-net silently, staring at the woman on the other side of the bed, stroking Bran's hair like he was her own. Listened silently as she told him Dornish folk-tales, stories of wildlings, stories of the Children, even a story from Lys her Uncle would tell her. Fumed silently, as she glowed like the sun, good times evident in the thick, shining rope of her braid, the clear gold of her skin, the roses in each cheek and sparkle in each eye. And Catelyn looked at her crippled child, pale and wan in a bed so big he looked like a ship lost at sea, too far to see, too far to touch.

Outwardly, her face was like ice, hands moving mindlessly, over and under; inside she was wroth as a storm, screaming, ripping out her hair, and cursing the Gods. How dare this Dornish bitch touch her son, her Bran, as if she wasn't the reason for the downfall for of House Stark?

Without her, Ned wouldn't have dared give the Bastard his name, give him land and a holdfast, men to follow him and smallfolk to praise him. Without her, it would have been Robb betrothed to a charming young maiden, the envy of every boy, Lord, and King. Without her, Bran never would have travelled north, grown wild, ignored her commands and climbed that thrice-damned tower.  _It was her,_ she screeched,  _her!_

A tiny part of her, hidden deep beneath layers and layers of hate and fury and toil, shook its head. It's your fault, it whispered.  _You_  were the one that laughed with her, like a stupid little girl freshly wed, instead of watching your own son.  _You_ let this snake work its way into this family, this heart.  _You_ trusted her and she  _betrayed you_.

No matter, Catelyn thought heavily to herself. It was almost done now. There was no knot in the world that could not be undone, no problem that could not be solved, no man, woman, or  _child_ that could not be killed.

Larys warmed her hands with the cup of tea Cat had brought her. Even at her lowest times, the woman was gracious to a fault. How could she find it in her to ensure a guest was comfortable when her son was lost in his own mind?  _I hope I am half the woman she is when I am her age_ , Larys thought, and sipped the tea.

Her immediate reaction was completely hidden, only in her mind. On the outside, her face became slightly wooden, soft smile fixed, stitched on. But she knew this taste, this bitter, tart, acrid taste. Even when masked by honey, wine, or a hundred spoons of sugar,  _Larys knew this taste_.

Moon tea _._

Gods, how could she have been such a fool? She'd been  _poisoned_ , by the very woman she'd dare call  _mother._  Her son, her baby, her boy. Dead dead dead. Purple, bloated, dead before he was alive.

Rotting, rotting in those dark crypts, locked in stone. Flesh and blood, trapped, turning from sweet child to bones and dust. Perhaps he was dying now, perhaps he was already dead and she was carrying his corpse. Weighed down, like an anchor, like a ball and chain. Was he rotting inside her? Maggots eating his flesh, eating hers?

Larys blinked- the bitch had killed her child.

She looked down at the murky, boiling liquid, gripped it until her hands shook in her lap, white-knuckled and taut. It was a hard cup, carved from whale-bone, heavy and cool despite the scalding poison within. Larys rose calmly, trying not to wobble. It was like the weight of her own child had suddenly thrown her off.

Slowly, calmly, as if nothing was wrong, she walked to the window besides Catelyn Tully, staring down at the empty courtyard below. She felt the woman's eyes follow her. In one, smooth motion, she emptied the cup out of the window, watching it splash onto the floor far, far below.

With a shriek, she whirled around and swung the cup into Catelyn's face. It smashed into her nose with a shower of blood and a pained scream, and the woman fell to her knees in agony, prayer net forgotten on the floor. Bran's direwolf, sat atop the sleeping boy's bed, sat up, ears perked, but did not move.

"You bitch!" Larys screeched, pummelling the older woman's face again and again with the blood-stained cup. "You fucking _bitch_!"

Her hands were slick with hot, wet blood, and she felt a feral pleasure at seeing the woman weakly raise her hands, at the crack of her breaking nose and teeth. Somehow, Catelyn swung her legs out and Larys fell to the floor with a groan, bruising herself on the unforgiving stone floor.

The red-haired and red-faced woman scrambled away on her stomach, blinded with blood in her eyes, dishevelled and screaming. Larys snarled and latched onto her ankle, knocking her flat and dragging her away from the door. With a grunt, she heaved herself off the floor and buried her fist in Catelyn's long red hair, twisting and pulling. She opened her mouth to speak but released only a wordless howl of fury.

Face stained with blood and fiercely set, eyes wild and hungry, she dragged the Lady Catelyn by her hair. The older woman scratched at her hand, kicked her legs furiously, called out to her still and sleeping son. His direwolf sat watching.

Larys reached the top of the steep stairs, and put her face beside Catelyn Tully's.

"I carry the son of wolves, of dragons, of the red sands of Dorne. I will set the world ablaze before I let him die at the hands of Catelyn the Cunt," she hissed, tears pouring down her crazed face. "I called you Mother. Now I call you foe."

"It does not matter," Catelyn gasped, blood trickling from her smiling mouth. "That bastard is dead. The Mother has blessed me."

"The only mother here," Larys whispered, almost caressing the woman's face. "Is me."

At that moment, Larys was more Targaryen than Catelyn had ever been Stark; the words fire and blood never rang more true than when Lady Larys exacted her revenge. And as she leaned forward and whispered the truth in Catelyn Tully's ear, the dead woman's world was set asunder. Her face turned pale, her smile died, her eyes wide and blank. If Lady Tully had been mad before she knew, she was madder after she did.

Catelyn Stark was found dead at the bottom of the stairs, body twisted grotesquely like a sick puppet, face contorted into one of terror. Fallen, they said, stricken with grief. And while Winterfell wept for the loss of their Lady, Larys wept for the loss of her Mother, her trust, her innocence.


	12. PART TWO- Blood

**Part Two**

**Blood**

"How can you say that?"

"How can you  _not?_ "

Jon clenched his jaw and glared at her.

"She was the mother of my cousins, my father's _-_  wife. Why do you slander her so?"

Larys could feel her cheeks were red and angry, hair frazzled and hands shaking.

"Just because she's dead doesn't mean she wasn't an utter bitch to you!"

"I was the bastard son of her husband, Larys, what was she going to do? Take me in as her own?" he exclaimed in exasperation.

"If only you'd thought that before you sulked your way through life," she sneered, folding her arms.

Jon shut his eyes and took a deep calming breath.

"She was like a mother to you," he said stonily. "You were never happier than when you were with her."

Larys felt a scream build up in her throat, and for a moment she thought she'd let it loose, succumb to the maddening, crazed myriad of thoughts and emotions crawling over each other like cockroaches.

"My mother died sixteen years ago," said Larys sharply. "Lady Tully died yesterday."

Jon was more confused and frustrated than he had ever been.

"Lady Stark," he corrected firmly. " _Lady Stark._ "

They'd come closer together as they argued, eyes burning with the same fire, staring each other down. Larys glared at him in challenge.

" _I_ am Lady Stark."

He growled, quiet at first, then loud and harsh.

"You are Larys Cassel," he hissed through clenched jaw. "Daughter of the lowly master-of- _fucking-_ arms. Just like I am Jon Snow the Bastard. No ceremony, no marriage _,_ no goddamn  _castle_  will change that!"

His voice had risen to a shout, but she turned her cheek, blinking away her tears defiantly as he grew angrier.

"If we are to judge people by their father's, then perhaps we should begin with you."

Jon's face fell, and she glimpsed his hurt before all she could see was a cold, unreadable mask. She felt an indecipherable, sickening thrill to see she had penetrated his walls, but it was soon replaced by aching guilt.

"I told you the truth because you love me," he said quietly. "Has that changed?"

Larys looked at him apprehensively, face stubbornly set- but her eyes were sad and filled with remorse.

"No," she whispered, struggling to hold his gaze.

He stared at her a moment before sighing and stepping back, face guarded.

"Then I take my leave," he said finally. "If you wish to wallow in hate for an innocent woman, then I will not stop you."

Larys felt herself sag with despair and resignation. Innocent woman? She watched him turn and leave their chambers with tears in her eyes, falling onto the bed as soon as the door clicked shut.

Had killing Catelyn been a mistake? No. She knew it wasn't. The woman was mad, mad beyond belief. But Larys had torn a family apart. Ned, kind Ned, was deep in mourning for his wife, the children stunned by the sudden loss. They did not know it was her, nobody did. Perhaps that was what made it so hard; that they comforted Larys on the loss of the woman that understood her. And maybe she did mourn her. Jon was right. Catelyn had been like a mother to her.

And Gods she had not meant what she said to Jon. She loved him more than anything, she hoped he knew that. But to see him defend the woman that poisoned their child? He should be supporting Larys, comforting her, pulling her out of the well of dark thoughts. But he wasn't, and he never would. He could never, never know.

She dragged her hands down her skirt again and again. But the blood that stained them would not go.

How would Larys go down in history? As Lady Stark? Or the whore that tore apart a great house?

* * *

"A week is all he will give me," Ned sighed, lines more prominent than ever. "I begged him for longer, but he could not see past his own needs. She will be buried in Riverrun, beside her mother."

Jon watched his Uncle carefully. His eyes were slightly red, the grey soft and clouded. His brows were drawn together, mouth down-turned. The death of his wife had hit him hard, the strong of his shoulders stooped and low.

"He does not understand what it is to love your wife," he said slowly. "That is not your fault. An order is an order."

Ned looked up from where he was sat at the base of the Heart Tree, face surprisingly vulnerable. In moments like this, Jon felt that he and Ned were brothers rather than Father and son. And wasn't that a strange turn of events.

"I don't know how it could have happened," Ned whispered, staring at the lake. "How she could have been so blinded by her grief that she fell and died. Sometimes... sometimes I think it wasn't a mistake."

Jon felt his heart thumping.

"That maybe..." he whispered. "Maybe she killed herself."

For some indecipherable reason, Jon felt his heart ease.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "She loved you and your children far too much to die. She did not wait for Bran to awaken for so long to die before he did."

Ned nodded silently, face softening slightly.

"Yes," he murmured. "I don't think there was ever a mother that loved her children more than Cat did."

Ned sighed and leaned back, running a hand down his face.

"If I travel south, and take Arya and Sansa with me, I will need you to help Robb. He will be acting Lord of Winterfell, and as much as he acts it, Gods bless him, he is not quite ready. None of them expected this. I need you to help him, help all of them, you and Larys. They don't know what it is to be without a mother; don't know that life does not stop at her death. But you know perhaps better than anyone what that is like, and I beg you to show them. They will be vulnerable without me Jon, still young and unsure of the world."

Jon closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his shoulders sag under this burden. Was he not the same age as Robb? He had no one to help him and shield him when he grew- he'd learnt the ugly truth younger than Bran. But that was unfair. He would not begrudge them their innocence. And perhaps Robb would surprise them, in time.

"I would die for them," he said finally. "You know that."

"Yes," said Ned tiredly. "As would I. Perhaps that is our mistake."

* * *

Larys watched from the window of the First Keep as the Royal group rode out of Winterfell, watched as Ned turned his back on Winterfell.

She thought that everything would change, but it seemed Robert did not care for Lady Catelyn's death. On the surface, everything was happening as it would have; Ned riding south as hand of the King, Jon standing strong beside his cousins, Sansa betrothed to the Prince.

But in truth, Lord Stark was a ghost of himself, Jon had not slept beside her in a week, and Sansa did not know how a woman came with child.

She remembered sitting her down just a day previously.

"Your mother should be the one to tell you this," she'd said to the red-eyed girl. "But she is not here so I must do my best."

Larys felt a knife twist in her belly every time she saw Arya, or Sansa, or little Bran asleep in his bed. Not only had he been robbed of his legs, he'd been robbed of his Mother.

The cold stone of the wall was cool and soothing against her throbbing head, and she rubbed her tummy softly. She felt a flutter beneath her palm and a tear slid down her cheek.

Her son was alive, blessed by the Gods- moon tea had not worked the first time and it had not worked the second. She'd visited Luwin, claiming the shock and grief of Catelyn's death had her worried. Nothing was wrong, he'd said. Strong as a horse.

So why did the news that the son she loved was safe make her heart sink to her feet? She had killed for him, hurt those she loved for him. And that was why she'd never hated herself more.

Larys had killed Catelyn thinking the woman had murdered her child. But, intentionally or unintentionally, the woman had failed. Catelyn was dead for nothing.

_No,_ she thought fiercely to herself,  _she tried to kill you both. Taking moon tea so late in pregnancy is tantamount to swallowing hemlock._

But no matter how much she argued with herself, she could not clean her hands of Catelyn's blood.


	13. Bandages

**Bandages**

Larys padded through the castle alone, arms folded over her tummy and wool dressing gown. Her feet curled over the cold stone slabs, as she wandered, disoriented.

She found she couldn't sleep, not without Jon beside her. Every time she shut her eyes the soft bear pelt suffocated her, the feather mattress swallowed her whole, and the comforting darkness hid demons baying for her blood. And from the window, scarlet-stained hands hooked their elegant, white fingers over the sill and hauled up a beautiful corpse crowned in auburn hair.

Larys shuddered, gripping her sides with bandaged, white-knuckled hands. Blood seeped through like blooming roses. It had all been a blur.

_Go in_ , she'd thought to herself.  _You owe it to the boy._ But just the thought of being in the same room she'd killed Catelyn in made her queasy. Bran had witnessed it all- asleep or no, he had heard his mother's screams as easily as Old Nan's whispered stories. Even the wolf had seen it all.

But one step at a time she had climbed those stairs, heart pounding, palms slick with sweat. Was that blood beneath her feet? Crash, crash, crack- down down Catelyn went.

At last she had stepped into that damned room. The boy slept on, unaware of his mother's murderer beside him, unaware of the soft touch of her hand on his hair. As she looked away from the true victim of this all, she wondered whether that shadow on the rug was truly the absence of light or a blood-stain. Long she had stood and long she had stayed, until the panicked shouts of fire outside were as meaningless as the wind. Little did she know she was as unprotected as a babe.

A rustle at the door and she turned in surprise. Luwin? Robb? A hired assassin? The latter snarled at her, and she flinched, instinctively standing beside Bran.

"Thought there was only one to kill," he said, grinning sadistically, eying her belly. "Now there are three."

He bared his yellow teeth and she cringed. Was it not in this very room she had been a murderer? And now she was to be the murdered.

An uneasy shift beneath her fingers and she remembered the boy whose life she had ruined. Did she not owe it to Catelyn, in a twisted way, to protect her son when she was not here to do so herself? Her son kicked within her- she realised with growing terror how many lives were in her hands.

The man started forward, knife flashing in the sunlight. She caught it with a gasp, held it tight in her fists as he jerked it back and forth- she felt the tendons rip, saw hot blood pour like a fountain from her hands, drip drip onto the floor. He shoved her back and she crashed into the wall, screamed in agony when he kneed her tummy. Gods.

She opened her mouth to scream again and he pressed his mouth against hers, swallowing her screech. Panicking, heart pounding she bit his lip, gagging as his blood seeped over her tongue, tangy and metallic. A roar of fury and he wrenched the dagger away, bringing it sweeping down just as she kneed his groin- he missed, slashing open her face instead.

Scrabbling at the door and she heard a familiar howl. Blood blinded her and through the red she watched as a wolf bounded through. Just as the dead man stumbled away from her, his life was ripped from his throat in a haze of snarls and white teeth. Blood and gore and filth unmentionable splattered her. She whimpered, scrambling away from the raging wolf on her elbows, hands shaking and scarlet, and wounds wide and gaping.

Even now, she flinched at every shadow, winced at every howl of the wind. The very walls of the castle seemed to trap her until there was no room to breathe. Her hands jerked uncontrollably. It seemed where her son was strong as steel she was frail and weak. Drenched in blood they had found her, hands raw and ruined, staring silently at the corpse of the man that had tried to kill a woman dying inside. Hailed her as a hero, praised her name in every room, nook and cranny of Winterfell.

Last time she had felt the hot spray of blood on her face had been that very same room. As they called her Brandon's saviour, his true protector rotted at Riverrun.

The floor was cold beneath her feet. How many times had Catelyn walked this hallway? How many times had her feet touched these floors?

Winterfell should have been her home, where Larys had grown and wed. But now she could felt so alone. If only Jon was here.

A week more he had stayed before leaving for Queenscrown with the dwarf, giving her only small smiles and soft touches of her hand to prove he did not hate her. Sometimes she'd catch him staring at her from where he sat, eyes dark and intense, fierce in their scrutiny- she would blink, shiver, and stare fiercely at the wall. He was trying to understand her, understand why she had so vehemently rejected his kindness for Catelyn. Gods forbid he ever knew why.

But the weight of this burden was crushing her. Her skin was sallow, her eyes dull, her lips void of colour. She'd lost weight. Before she had been healthy, soft and curvy, had the sort of body slimmer women laughed at but men drooled over. Now Luwin worried over the sharp of her ribs, the futility of her hands, the marring of her face.

Larys realised with a start she had reached the doors of the First Keep. The world was silent, the doors oak sentinels. She was accompanied only by wolves howling in the distance and cats prowling the night. Useless hands reached out and twisted the handle, smearing blood over metal.

A gaping, empty darkness tempted her. One step forward and the meagre light of the torches died. One step forward and the pitiful warmth of the castle was lost. The moonless night, and she shivered in the freezing dark.

Hands held shaking in front of her; Larys crept through the courtyard, cursing until she stumbled over her own feet.

She gasped in fear for her child, twisting at the last moment so she landed painfully on her back. Her chest heaved as she panted. All she could hear was her breathing, the pounding of her heart, and the howling wind. The tears came suddenly and with great force- a silent storm gathering on the horizon that comes raging forth with all its godlike, roaring fury.

Lady Stark lay sobbing on the floor of Winterfell, frail hands clutching at her face, her hair. Tears traced a path down sunken cheeks. Her despair echoed with no one to hear.

* * *

A form, hunched and frail, lay sleeping fitfully on the floor. A gust of wind rattled the shutters and a cacophony of screaming crows flew from their roosts in a chaos of black wings. Larys jerked awake with a gasp, shielding her head in panic as countless crows surrounded her in their desperate attempt to escape through the one window. She felt them tear at her hair, felt their claws scrape her scalp and beaks bite at her fingers.

Silence. She lifted her head warily, met only with the emptiest of rooms. Feathers floated from the rafters, slow and gentle, landing like snow around her.

A soft sigh, and she rubbed her eyes, head pounding. This wasn't healthy, not for her and not for her son. She needed to pull it together, think logically- if Larys was to break down at every drop of blood she saw, it would not be long before she was torn down. That couldn't happen.

Larys rose stiffly to her feet, wrapping her woollen robe tighter around her in the cold air. Tilting her head back, she met the eyes of a stubborn crow far up in the rafters, braver than its brothers and sisters, alone in its resilience. That was what Larys had to become. Alone but strong.

The light of dawn filtered through the window, and she watched the dust float through the room, illuminated by the sun. The Broken Tower- why she had come here she didn't really know. Perhaps in her desperation she had sought the one place she knew nobody would be. How fitting this was where Bran had fallen. How fitting this was where it had begun.

Her footsteps were muffled by the thick layer of dust on the floor; it seemed Bran climbed the tower but did not enter. A small body-shaped space was free of dust, where she had slept. As she walked slowly around the room, and past a pile of rotting wood, she came across a puzzle by the window.

A large, sweeping area free of dirt, as though it had been hastily swept away. She spied a hand print, a shoe print, and the telltale marks of sweeping skirts. As she knelt carefully, she spied a damp patch. A substance, a translucent white, small in amount but startling in its location. With a frown Larys touched it with her finger, and with a great sense of foreboding, she tasted it.

Sharp and salty. A taste, as a married woman, she knew well. Why on earth was there seed in the tower? And whose was it?

She looked up, scanning the floor for any clue. At last, she found it, and held it up in the sun. Long and yellow, shining like spun gold in the sunlight. A hair- far too long and far too blonde.

* * *

"My Lady Stark."

The two guards, newly appointed, bowed her through the door. She nodded, back straight, bandaged and impotent hands hidden beneath billowing sleeves and leather gloves. The red and angry scar that ran down the side of her face, brow to jaw, was harder to hide.

The room, the room she had grown to hate with a startling ferocity, was the same as ever. Peaceful, calm, filled with soft light and bathed in warmth. The corpse and copious blood had been scrubbed clean. She kid herself the smell of metal still hung in the air.

And in the bed, buried beneath a mound of blankets and furs, was a red-haired boy, sat up and staring right at her.

"Bran," she whispered.

All courage left her. What if he remembered? Gods those eyes. Blue and piercing, so like the eyes of another woman,

"What are you doing here?"

"Brandon," said Luwin sharply, turning to her with apologetic eyes. "Apologies my Lady Stark. It has been difficult for him."

Larys took a breath and nodded with a small smile. She was being incredibly selfish. He had no legs. He had no mother.

"Of course," she said, walking slowly to his bedside. "How do you feel?"

He looked at her, lips down-turned.

"What do you think?" he said bitterly.

The tone did not suit him. A small boy with the voice of an old man wronged.

"Silly question," she murmured. "Anything I can do?"

She had helped Arya and Sansa, girls too young to be without a mother. They had almost sought her out, looking for a softer touch than the hard arms of their father. And little Rickon, who called her mother despite her protests- small and trusting, who believed that any kind woman they called Lady Stark was mother to him. But she had a sinking feeling Bran would not be the same.

"I would like it," he began, scowling. "If you stopped pretending to be Mother."

Larys felt as though the wind had been knocked from her. Luwin looked horrified.

" _Brandon!_ "

"It is alright, Maester," she said finally, holding Bran's gaze.

"No it's not," the boy snapped. "Everybody calls her Lady Stark, worships her, and follows her orders. She  _isn't_ Lady Stark. Mother is!"

"Your mother is dead," Luwin said gently. "Lady Larys saved your life."

This seemed to only aggravate Bran further. Larys closed her eyes.

"Summer saved me!" he snarled. "And mother  _isn't dead!_ "

Summer- the wolf that had saved them both. Could there be a more ironic name?

"I have told you, Bran," Luwin said calmly, and she had the feeling he'd said this before. "You mother fell down the stairs and died. That is not Larys' fault."

Larys felt bile rise in her throat.

"It's not  _fair!_ " Bran protested, eyes filled with angry tears. "You said she waited for days! Why did she have to die?  _It should have been her!_ "

Here Bran pointed an accusing finger at her. The room fell silent and Larys felt worse than she ever had before. Not when Catelyn poisoned her, not when Jon turned his back on her, not when her hands were ripped to shreds. Here, here was something she could not argue with. It should have been her.

It should have been her.


	14. Dark Tales

**Dark Tales**

 

The thought left her as soon as it came, leaving nought but a glimmer of doubt. A heavy sigh- this was exhausting.

"That is for the Gods to decide."

Larys' voice was firm, disguising her fatigue. Her eyes did not linger on Bran's accusing face, nor Luwin's embarrassed one, but instead at the strand of hair in front of her eyes. It danced as she strode from the room and out of the castle. It moved gently in the wind of the Godswood. It hung limp and still in the stagnant air of the crypts.

Larys looked up at her good-mother with tired eyes.

"What happens now?" she whispered.

The dead woman and her whispers did not scare her any longer. There were worse things to be scared of; in the back of her mind, theories flew back and forth on Bran's fall. What was there to fear in a mother screaming for her son?

Everything she realised, and for a moment the stray hair was red- she watched the shadows creep over Lyanna like poison ivy.

"Are you trapped?"

Silence answered, and Larys wondered whether it was the fate of the dead to despair on the living. Which was the greater burden?

A hand drifted up, strangely steady, stroking the chin of the cold stone replica of a beautiful woman.

The screams returned to her mind, but this time it was different. Like a blossom opening it's shy petals, her mind was filled with the name of the man she loved. Over and over. A song, an ode, a poem. Jon Jon Jon.

"He is safe," she murmured, stone skin rough beneath her fingers. "He is well. He is  _mine_."

The voice fell silent, all of a sudden and all too fast. Larys blinked.

"Where did you go?" she purred. "Don't you want to meet me?"

Was that blood rushing beneath the grey?

"Larys Cassel, daughter of the lowly master of fucking arms," she said, tilting her head to the side. "That is what your bastard called me."

In the murky dark of her thoughts, a spark of resentment.

"I am the best thing that ever happened to him. He will never have  _anything_ better than me," Larys hissed suddenly. " _I_  am the reason he knows his true name.  _I_  am the reason he is Lord of Haven.  _I_  am the reason Kings and Queens look down on his brother and up at him!"

Her rage was swift and sudden, her remorse more so.

"He is a good man," she whispered, voice almost shy. "A better person than I will ever be. Perhaps that is why sometimes... sometimes I despise him. Son of a mad Stark and son of a madder Targaryen and yet-"

_What is he like?_

Larys froze. Her heart jumped to her mouth. She was talking to a dead woman. Who was  _talking back_.

"He..." she breathed. "He has dark hair. Curly, to his shoulders. He ties it back sometimes. His eyes are grey, almost black, shaped like almonds, and he has a line between his brows like an old man. His lips are quite girly, pink, and his nose is long. Not long, really, but close to his mouth. I like it. It makes him look handsome. And he has a beard, a short one. His ears are small and his teeth are ever so slightly crooked in the front. He is tall and strong, but graceful, almost like a dancer. He has a scar on his palm from when he was a child. He was sad he would never be Lord so I told him that being nothing meant he could be anything. He decided he would be a cook and cut himself trying to chop carrots. I laugh every time I see it."

Without realising, she was crying.

"And he doesn't know how to whistle. I've been trying to teach him but he's hopeless. He told me he'd just sing for Ghost to come instead. Sometimes he sings for me when I'm sick or massages my feet when they hurt. Once he tasted my perfume because he thought it would taste as good as it smelt."

She knuckled her eyes in a futile attempt to stem tears. She sniffed.

"I'm a selfish whore. He loves me more than anyone in this world. He could have had any woman but he chose me."

Lyanna seemed to be smiling down on her, and Larys smiled shakily back.

"And he gave me a son. What more could I want?"

Larys emerged from the crypts with a clear mind. Her face was dry, tears fallen and spent, resting deep beneath Winterfell where she left them to die. The leaves crunched beneath her feet as she walked slowly through the Godswood, determined to savour her last moments amongst these trees.

From the corner of her eye she saw the Weirwood tree that started it all. She remembered the feel of Jon inside her, cradled by the Gods, his hot breath against her skin, the rough scratch of his beard between her legs. A flutter in her tummy and she smiled a true smile.

"That's where you were made," she cooed, pointing to the tree.

She knelt with difficulty and picked up a broad red leaf from the forest floor. Larger than her own hand, she spun it between her fingers.

"Maybe we'll call you Redleaf," she mused, voice teasing. "Or Treeborn."

If circumstances change, you must change with them. Her uncle's steady, firm voice rang clearer in her mind than ever before. Larys had loved Catelyn, thought of her as a mother. And she honestly believed Catelyn had thought the same of her. But a mother's love has power unmeasured, and the Catelyn that poisoned her was not the same woman that carried her around Winterfell as a child. Catelyn Stark died when Bran fell from the Broken Tower- what was left was but a shadow.

It was alright for Larys to mourn her; it was alright for her to wish it had never been so. But time enough had passed and she needed to move forward. In the moment, as soon as the poison slid down her throat, she had thought not of herself and not of Cat, but of her son. He was everything, all that mattered. A kick beneath her palm and she smiled softly. Strong boy. It would be years before he could defend himself- until then, she would be his guardian. She and Jon; together they would watch over him.

But Winterfell did not welcome her anymore. The people loved her, praised her bravery, but the walls were tall and hard and the nights long and dark. She had been born here, had grown here, had wed here, but she would not be made here.

Here lies Larys Cassel, daughter of the lowly master-of-fucking-arms.

* * *

"Why?"

Larys stood calm and composed in her heavy cloak. The fur tickled her ears. Robb watched her with mild panic.

"Winterfell is not my home any longer," she returned. "I am Lady Stark of the Gift, not Winterfell. I will not live in your mother's shadow any longer."

He recoiled but she remained firm, ignoring his flinch.

"I cannot rule alone!" he exclaimed. "Father is gone, mother is gone, Jon is gone, and now you will be too!"

She touched his clenched fist softly with a small smile.

"You're doing fine," she said kindly. "You have Luwin, and my Father, and Theon and Bran. Even little Rickon."

He sighed, brows furrowed. Already she saw him grow from privileged boy to a man. A quick and sudden start, a rough push down a steep hill, but he was regaining his balance.

"You are your father's son Robb," she smiled, flicking a lock of red hair from his face. "And your mother's. Ruling is in your blood. Do not be afraid to command."

She saw his eyes fill with pain and knew how keenly he felt the loss of his mother.

"I am sorry," she murmured.

"It is not your fault," he said, shaking his head. "You are the last person anyone would think to blame."

Were the Gods testing her? She closed her eyes with a sigh.

"I advise you to marry soon," she said at last, waving away his surprise. "You are not getting younger. Perhaps you should raven Ned. I suggest Tacey Umber. A pretty, smart girl- good birthing hips- and suited to you, I think."

"Marriage is the last thing on my mind," he said in exasperation.

"It is the last thing on everyone's mind," she laughed. "Until it happens. Then suddenly you are sharing your laughter and pain and fears with your better half."

He fell quiet, staring out of the window pensively. He sighed heavily.

"I suppose if I command you to stay here you will not obey?"

"I think you know the answer."

"Then I command you to do one thing for me," he said fiercely, and she smiled at his fire. "Take Rickon. He is utterly lost without mother. Luwin fears he will grow strange without a woman to care for him. I am always too busy and he screams when any other woman tries to touch him, even Old Nan."

Larys stood stupidly, lips parted in shock.

"And..." Robb began, pausing. "He already calls you mother."

Larys spotted a flicker of resentment in Robb's face that baby Rickon could move forward so easily.

Perhaps this was her atonement. She had killed Catelyn and now she would care for her son. A cruel twist of fate.

"Will he not miss Winterfell? Miss you and Brandon?" she asked in a futile attempt to change his mind.

"No," he sighed. "Bran hardly wants to see anyone and I am Lord of Winterfell now."

"Alright," she hesitated. "Alright."

"And the wolf," Robb added, and here he grinned. "Shaggydog."

She let out a laugh, raising her eyes to the heavens. The wildest of them all.

"Of course."

And so it was that Larys rode astride her Dornish sand-steed, surrounded by soft summer snows, Winterfell growing smaller and smaller behind her. Rickon was nestled in front of her, mercifully sleeping. Her sister, sweet Beth, that she had almost forgotten amidst all the chaos, rode her own pony with all the pride of a girl treated as a lady. Larys remembered how much she had to persuade her lovely father. For the first time he was separate from all his children. Jory, truly his nephew, serving Jon at Haven, Beth his little girl, going to live with her sister, and Larys, off to raise a family in her own castle. Sad but proud he had been. He had refused her offer to join them, insisting Robb and Winterfell needed him- she had reluctantly agreed.

Three children she had now. The one in her belly, the one in her arms, and the one beside her. How fast and oh how unexpected. She laughed to think of Jon's face when he saw them.

That night she lay alone in her tent, sipping at warm milk. Although it was unconfirmed by the citadel, Luwin insisted alcohol was bad for the baby- she was not about to go against his advice. In her mind's eye she could see him nod approvingly.

Shouts of alarm from the men outside and she started to her feet. A guard burst into the tent in panic.

"A wolf, my Lady!"

She ran as fast as she could, waving away an help, barging her way forward . And there, so much bigger than last she'd seen him, a white, red-eyed wolf stared innocently back at her.

" _Ghost._ "

Larys sank to her knees and opened her arms just as he bound into her arms. Laughing in delight at his kisses, she buried her face in his fur with a grin. The crowd, calm now they had identified the wolf, began to disperse.

"Come with me boy," she said, stroking his fur. "I have a lot to tell you."

Her tent was no longer empty. Somehow, Rickon had found it and snuck in, and was now nestled in a little ball in her furs, fast asleep. She sat on a chair instead with rueful smile, Ghost resting his head on her lap and looking up at her with large, peaceful eyes.

A murmur from the bed.

"Mama..."

Rickon rolled over and fell back into fitful sleep. She swallowed, rubbing her eyes tiredly.

"It's been rough Ghost," she whispered.

He stared back without judgement. If you threaten a wolf's pups it will rip you limb from limb. There is no duty, no honour, no morals- only survival.

She rested her chin on her hand, looking back at Ghost with equal vigour. What human eyes.

"I killed Catelyn," she breathed, heart thumping. "I smashed her face in and threw her down the stairs and I  _laughed_  when I heard her neck break."

Her heart eased. There. She had told someone. Ghost did not judge her, did not judge like Jon might have, because he understood. He understood what must be done to protect the ones you love.

* * *

Jon shuddered in sleep, drenched in sweat. Dark hair and a darker tale chased him through the night and into the dawn.

And he remembered every word.


	15. Regrets

**Regrets**

For the first time in her life, Larys was terrified of her husband.

Her chin was high before her people, her face clear and calm, but her hands shook uncontrollably. She clasped them together.

"My Lord," she said demurely, smiling perfectly as she curtseyed to Jon.

He stared at her with such cold eyes in the dying light of day. No warmth, no love, only ice, and she wondered when he had become so formidable. A moment of tension and he nodded.

"Wife."

He knew better than to call her such in front of so many people. In private, he said it with a proud smile that sent a thrill through her; here it was with a stony face and cold voice that had her fighting off embarrassment. She was not some common woman to be put down by her peasant husband. He  _knew_ that.

The worst thing, she thought as she walked behind him to their chambers, was that she didn't know what was wrong. And something was very wrong.

_Why._

She frowned at the floor, dread pooling in her stomach as more and more of the spirits in her head joined in the chorus. Did he know?  _How?_

The answer was he didn't, she thought firmly to herself. There was no way he could. She had only ever whispered the words to Ghost. It was simply impossible.

She recognised the irony before the voices told her.

Perhaps it was something else. Perhaps he had witnessed her and Jaime Lannister's interaction. That would have looked admittedly suspicious from afar, but he had to know she would never have anything to do with a Lannister. She'd said it enough.

Or maybe she was reading too much into this. It was likely nothing at all. Jon was Lord of Haven and the Gift- he was bound to have off days. He was  _allowed_ off days.

His feet suddenly stopped and she looked up, startled from her thoughts. He held the door open for her and she hurried into the room, dressing for sleep with a modesty she didn't know she had. At last she sank into the familiar furs of their bed and waited.

She watched him. Her hands clenched and unclenched the bear pelt. His back was to her, muscled and wide, tapering to a slim waist. How fast something so beautiful could turn so sour.

Riding into Haven, Jory had met her at the gates. And the frown on her cousin's face had been the first warning of many. As cold as the Wall and just as impassable, her husband was a maze she could not navigate. She was a fool to have thought she could.

"Why?"

So deep in her thoughts she almost drowned, Larys had not seen him walk forward to the bedside. He stood over her. For a moment she could not see his face.

"Why what?"

Her voice was weak, cracking.

The giant wrapped one long finger around a lock of her hair. She swallowed.

"Why would you do it?"

Her heart drummed a frantic rhythm, trapped like a bird in a cage. What did he know?

The question would not come. From her toes to her hair she gathered all the courage she could muster and pushed the words past her lips, filled with the foreboding of one who knows things will never be the same again.

"Do what?"

Moonlight shone from behind dark clouds and for a moment she could see his face. His skin was like alabaster, glowing even in the shadow of night, and she realised how dark her own was beside him.

"Murder her."

Air rushed out of her and she blinked frantically, waiting a moment for the world to right itself- it did not.

"I have not murdered anyone, Jon," she breathed, and her voice was steady in her desperation.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

"Don't say my name."

His hand, so tender even in anger, squeezed shut. She winced at the sharp pain in her head but did not move.

"Please Jon..."

Her hand tentatively touched his, and she attempted to loosen his grip on her hair. He hardly noticed, and yet his grip was iron.

" _I said don't say it!_ "

His voice was raw; spilling from him with such desperation that she knew it was hidden just under the surface, just behind his eyes, just beneath his skin.

Of all the times tears had spilled forward, this would have been the time. But they would not come, and her face, pale and frightened, was as dry as the sands of her homeland. Her son kicked with such violence she wondered whether he could feel the world crumbling too.

"What do you want me to say?"

His hand dropped her hair like it burned, and for a mad moment she wished it back. Anything to stop the cold.

"The truth."

There was no one to save her, no one to save him. It was Larys, it was Jon, it was the stone wall between them that she must break down, for better or for worse.

Larys closed her eyes for a moment, and bathed in the black of her eyelids, danced with the flashes of red, of yellow, of green. And when she opened them, Jon was watching her with a look she could not place.

"I killed her."

Jon deflated, like a puppet with its strings cut. She watched him breathe in, and stare at her with intensity unrivalled. His eyes ran over the smooth gold of her skin, the scandalous rise and fall of her naked breasts, the sultry unrepentant eyes, the tempting red pout of her frown.

A vixen, a beauty so bright it blinded him. Even in sin she shone like the sun.

"Beautiful devil..."

Larys shivered at his words, and did not break his gaze. It frightened her. It held so much passion, so much raw anger, so much helplessness.

"She poisoned me," she whispered, wanting so bad for him to understand, for him to share this injustice. "She tried to kill our son."

But he just shook his head, face as blank as it had been full.

"So you smashed her face in, threw her down the stairs, and you laughed when you heard her neck break."

Larys let out a half-gasp half-sob, shaking hands reaching for his and clasping them in awed fear. He did not pull away.

"Yes," she choked. "Yes."

With the suddenness of a starving man he fell onto her, tore away the furs, pressed his lips against hers with such fervour blood dripped down her chin. But she held onto him like a drowning woman, pulled him to her until there was nothing between them, only his scalding skin on hers.

And into her Jon poured all his rage, rage because he loved her, loved her with a burning, defiant fire he could not put out for the life of him. Rage because in all her maleficence, she held his heart aloft in her blood-stained hands.

* * *

When Larys woke from fitful sleep, it was with the consuming need to relieve herself. She scowled down at the belly that hid the child that would not let her sleep and sighed heavily. Slumped back on the bed, Jon stirred beside her. She waited with baited breath, begging any God that would listen that he would not awake. She couldn't handle that.

He was fire, he was a bright light that hurt to look at, and yet look at him she did. Why they loved each other, how they loved each other, she would never know. They were both so much, so full, and she knew they would lead each other to early graves.

Larys rubbed her eyes, shaking her head. She was doing it again- thinking about things not worth thinking about. A burst of resolve and she rose to her feet, leaving Jon behind in their cold room. Her legs ached and her neck was littered with his mark, but she found it was a sweet pain.

The kitchens were bare and empty in the witching hour, but the smell of bread lingered and she held back tears at the simplicity of it all.

It was her hidden urge, her hidden talent, the soothing balm to a life that was anything but. All her life she had stolen into kitchens and snatched flour, snatched milk, snatched eggs, kneading and rolling her own bread behind the stables. At first it was a mess that not even the pigs would eat, but now her hands found the ingredients with practised ease. And as she pounded the dough, she swam through the pain in her hands, determined to ensure that this, this peace was not stolen from her. She focused only on the wet dry in her hands, the nostalgic smell, the fluidity of order.

Of Dorne she reminisced, of the singing women as they beat clothes clean on rocks, of the birds that flew through every window and every tree, of the stomping feet of girls as they danced. She hummed a familiar tune as she baked, struck the floor with her feet, rose her hands to the ceiling and twirled her hands slowly, gracefully, as she dropped her hip. The tune came easily as she sang the wordless song, and a laugh burst forth when her son kicked with her. She froze at the sound- it was so foreign, so old.

The hands on Larys' waist were sudden but soft, and so gentle, and she turned to Jon with eyes that momentarily were as innocent as a newborn. His face was warm, and she knew she was forgiven. And so was he.

The embrace seemed to last a lifetime, and their hands were careful and new. But his lips were gentle on hers and she melted against him like butter.

"I'm hungry," he murmured at last, and eyed the dough on the table.

A moment's silence before she burst into tinkling bell-like laughter, and he beamed at her joy. She danced out of his arms and bumped her hip into his, knocking him aside and resumed her kneading.

"You'll have to wait, boy," she scolded, mimicking the Winterfell cook Agnes. "Or you'll be eating with one less hand."

"One less hand, one less leg, anything to taste the fruits of my Lady's labour," he cried in his best southern accent, bowing dramatically.

She shushed him but her face was red with the effort not to laugh and wake the whole castle.

Jon's face fell so suddenly she frowned, touching his hand in question.

"I leave for the Wall on the morn."

His voice was quiet and remorseful, and she swallowed. But it could not be helped- everything had a price.

"Not for long," she whispered, and offered him a shaky smile.

He gave her a look of such wonder and gratitude her cheeks flamed.

"No," he said finally. "Not for long."

They ate their prize drizzled with honey like two children with a stolen treasure, stifling their regrets and bathing in the warmth they knew would not last.

* * *

The ride was long and hard, their horses stumbling beneath them, but Jon and Benjen persevered. Each of the men accompanying them had died, whether by the cold or wildlings, and only the two Starks remained. And when at last the horses died, they feasted on their corpses with no remorse.

The wind screamed around them, and their lashes were thick with snow and masks frozen to their faces. Jon had thought he knew winter, but here, beyond the Wall, the cold was like death, eating away at his insides and spewing from his mouth in steam that was swept away by the roaring wind.

"Which way?" Jon yelled.

Benjen only shook his head. The tracks they were following were long gone, swept away by the storm. Gods only knew what they were hunting, but rangers had been disappearing one by one, and they needed to know why. And what.

The storm raged around, growing stronger with every life it stole, until Jon could see nothing but snow.

So it was perfectly acceptable he did not see them come. It was perfectly acceptable he did not see Benjen fall. It was perfectly acceptable he did not see them turn their cold blue eyes to him. The hunters had become the hunted.

And then he saw nothing at all.


	16. Children

**Children**

The ground was cold beneath Ghost's feet, but to him that meant nothing. He was a creature of ice, a beast of the North. The True North.

Where men had sank to their knees, Ghost walked on the snow like it was marble, invisible against its white canvas. He was undistracted, attentive, completely focused on his Man. What fools they were, Men. Everything that breathed had instincts carved into them by the Gods, that told them leave, leave, leave, and yet the Men did not listen. They went.

And so Ghost followed, because he was not just Ghost. He was his Man, and his Man was him. Sometimes the lines blurred and he found himself touching the warm skin of his Mate, or feeling the rise and fall of a horse beneath him. But not anymore.

The world was silent, and Ghost was well and truly alone.

* * *

Ghost followed the trail with his ears laid back. The tracks were not a scent, were not blood drops, but bodies. Bodies he knew would rise again but had not, only by the will of the Gods. He was meant to be here, he was meant to find his Man. He had their blessing and so Ghost was not afraid.

But the air tasted wrong and the cold sank into his bones, and he knew his kin had fled south for a reason .

* * *

At first the bodies had been many, but now they were none. The snow had swept away the scent and now he was following instinct alone. The fire of their connection had died, but there were embers, glowing embers, and he blew on them as best he could and followed the smoke.

* * *

At last he found something. At first he thought it was his Man, and considering the rope between them was cut, he was relying on the familiar musty, earthy smell. And when he bound over to the body, his hunch was confirmed by the black hair spread over the snow-covered ground like spilt ink. But as he licked the snow from his face, Ghost was wrong. The face was similar but different, different in the ways Men often were from each other. And now he was closer, he realised the scent wasn't right either. His Man had a trace of sweetness, of warmth and heat that reminded Ghost of lands he'd never seen- the scent of his Mate.

Ghost sniffed the man's body, licked away the ice until he tasted what he had been dreading. Blood. Old blood, dried and brown, like rusted metal.

* * *

Ghost was not far from the corpse that was not his Man when a sound made his ears perk. A rustling, so quite, so subtle, that in all his hunting, he had almost missed. He clung to that sound for the lifeline it was and ran and ran and ran.

There, half buried in the snow, was his Man, haloed by blood-stained snow. But the blood was fresh and his scent strong so Ghost did the best thing he could and sat atop his Man, enveloping in heat and fur and life, waiting for a sign.

* * *

Night had fallen when there was a whisper. It was soft, like wind through trees, but it carried hope and something not quite, real. Ghost listened. And when the voices fell silent, he lifted his head to the moon and howled for the first time in his life.

The haunting lament echoed through the land, and from between the white roots of a red tree, they listened. And they answered.

As Ghost watched them drag his Man beneath the Earth, he looked back one last time. On a whim that was not his own, Ghost ran back to the corpse of the man who was not his Man and dragged him down, down, down, to, at last, safety.

* * *

Larys sighed. The days were long and the nights longer.

"I want to go swimming."

"Not now Rickon."

She continued to pen a letter of thanks to her Uncle for the trade-deal. Thanks to him she was eating food with a thousand flavours- she loved the North, truly, but spices were not their forte.

"I want to go swimming,  _now!"_

She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. How would she manage with her own child? Would it be different?

"No," she said firmly.

"But I want to!"

"And I want to give you a good spanking," she snapped. "It's a good thing we don't get what we want, isn't it?"

The two, woman and child, glared at each other. Rickon was a wild boy, unpredictable and changeable as the wind, but he broke her gaze and settled with pouting.

Larys nodded and turning back to her papers, reading through the list of potential stewards the new Maester Gerrard had made. She had been holding off on making a decision, knowing it was Jon's to make, but she was swamped with work and he'd given her freedom as head of the household. Larys knew a decision needed to be made.

"Nina."

The maid in the corner looked up from her stitching with an eagerly attentive face. She was young and a bit simple, but Larys had grown fond of her- besides, the more stupid the more loyal, she'd found. She couldn't afford a spy in her midst. Any sign of weakness and the Northern Lords would pounce to take her place whilst Jon was gone.

"Fetch the Maester for me, sweet."

"Yes, my Lady."

The doe-eyed girl curtseyed deeply and left the room. For a moment she heard the hearty laughs of the guards on patrol before the door swung shut and the room was silent. Larys turned to Rickon with a soft look.

"I'm sorry we can't go swimming today," she said honestly. "Perhaps tomorrow."

He looked up from his toy knight with hopeful eyes.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

A shy smile that was remarkably innocent for the ferocious little boy.

"Thank you Mama."

She sighed heavily.

"I'm not your Mama Rickon."

But the child had long stopped listening - with a squeal of laughter he crashed the knight into the stone wall, and Larys watched as it broke into pieces. She squashed her foreboding and laughed a false laugh.

There was the Rickon she knew.

* * *

In Haven, just beyond the tower, sheltered by willows, unseen by anyone, was a small family. The squeals of happy children and laughs of a man and woman echoed over the water.

Larys screamed as Jory shoved her into the lake, breaking the surface of the cold water with a gasp as Beth and Rickon laughed hysterically in their sodden underclothes. Her hair was flat against her face and she peeled it away with a scowl that slowly gave way to a smile. As she rose to her feet, Rickon and Beth paid no attention, but Jory's eye's darkened at the sight of her dress clinging to every contour of her body. She did not notice, busy as she was splashing the children, but Jory felt the familiar mess of lust and guilt he often did when he saw Larys. In another time, another world, they could have been together and this could have been their family.

They huddled together on the bank, bathing in each other's body heat. Beth buried herself in Jory's side and Rickon snuggled into Larys' lap.

Larys did not notice the soft touch of Jory's hand as he draped them all in a blanket, but she smiled at the warmth and rung out her hair on Rickon's indignant face.

"No stop it!" he exclaimed, wriggling like a fish with his feet in the air. "Mama!"

A tiny foot narrowly missed her tummy and the other her face, and before anyone could react Jory caught his feet and lifted him into the air with ease.

"Careful little Lord," he warned as seriously as he could. "You might hurt the baby."

Rickon gurgled out laughter as the blood rushed to his head but nodded, flapping his arms and pretending to fly. Jory deposited him with a laugh and the child climbed into her lap far gentler than before. As he and Beth engaged in a fierce argument about fish, Larys turned to Jory with a teasing smile.

"You are wonderful with children, cousin," she whispered, lest they hear. "You will make a worthy husband and better Father one day."

Jory blushed; ignoring best as he could how close her face was to his, her warm, soft body pressed to his side. Larys was the wife of his Lord, and he had honour. He would not travel down that road. But by the Gods did she make it hard. The conspiratorial smile and dimples, the baby hairs that had begun to curl at her temple even when wet- she was a beauty, but more than that, she was familiar, warm,  _home_.

"You are better," he said, trying to hide the redness in his cheeks. "I am just a soldier. I doubt I will marry."

Larys scoffed.

"You Northern men, you all hate to think about it," she laughed, winking at him. "But it will sneak up on you one day and you'll wonder how you missed it."

Jory nodded absently, distracting himself by playing with lock of Beth's hair. It was too difficult to hear her say that.

"No, fish don't drink, they don't  _need_ to-"

Larys joined in the animated conversation and Jory leaned back on his hands, content with watching them.

"Oh."

Jory jerked forward and push Larys' hair from her eyes, inspecting her face. She wore an odd, surprised expression.

"Nothing, nothing," she said at last, soft smile returning. "The baby just kicked. It still surprises me."

"That's mean!" Rickon exclaimed angrily, scowling at her belly. "Stop hurting Mama!"

Larys laughed and kissed his forehead.

"It doesn't hurt little one," she said, taking his small pale hand in her tan one. "Feel."

She pressed it to her tummy, and the three of them watched with baited breath as she did so. A moment of silence.

" _I felt it!_ "

Beth clamoured to feel it too, and in the commotion, Jory watched Larys in awe. A child. She had a living,  _breathing_ child just beneath her skin. And in a moment of weakness, he wished it was his. His smile turned sad.

He jumped when she lifted his hand, looking down in surprise. His was rough and calloused, hair dusting the knuckles- hers was slim and petite, long-fingered and smooth on his. She pressed it to her belly without breaking his gaze.

And he felt it, Gods did he feel it. A tiny foot pressing against his palm, hardly the length of his finger, and he gasped out a laugh. She was beaming so bright and against logic, against honour, against hope, he wished it was his, wished  _she_ was his.

"You'll have your own one day," she breathed, eyes twinkling in pure joy. "With a woman you love."

And as he laughed and kissed her cheek, ruffled Rickon's hair and tickled Beth's chin, Jory lamented. How could she possibly know the only woman he ever loved was sat beside him?


	17. Blind

**Blind**

He was falling.

Falling falling falling crash.

Darkness. Nothing.

Something.

A light, beneath his feet, until it swallowed him whole. There was a man, a woman, a crown of winter roses, and a silent crowd.

Falling again.

What was his name?

Light above him, and he looked up, squinting. A suit of armour, glowing white, suspended over a roaring fire. Screams from behind him, choking, splutters, fingers scraping the back of his neck but he could not turn around.

Darkness. Falling. Flying.

A tower. A room. A bloody bed. Screams, screaming murder, bloody Mary bloody Mary bloody Mary. A baby, stained red. It opened its mouth and screeched.

Falling. Sleeping.

Darkness.

A tree. A voice. Whispers whispers what did they say? He could not hear. He once knew someone who could.

What was her name?

Silence and he screamed. They could not leave him here.

Not alone. Not here.

* * *

Jon's tongue was like lead in his mouth, foreign, dry. It was dark, it was black, he could not see.

He tried to open his eyes but realised he couldn't.

Groaning, twisting, panting. He felt bile bubble to his throat and gagged. It dribbled down his chin.

Heart thudding, he tried to listen, tried to hear, but the blood pounded through his ears and he could hear nothing but his own fear, smell nothing but his own sweat.

His tongue moved, his throat forced a wheeze and he choked on words he could not speak. Tears leaked from blind eyes and he wept in despair, in desperation.

When all his tears were spent and dry, he unstuck his mouth and wetted his tongue.

"Help..." he rasped.

He coughed, felt phlegm stick in his throat and spat to the side.

"Is anyone there?"

His raw, hoarse voice echoed in silence. For a moment.

Shifting, the sound of quiet feet, all around him. They were everywhere.

"I'm Jon," he said desperately. "Jon Stark. Who are you? Can you help me?"

All was quiet, and then, quick as the fleeting touch of a bird, and small hand touched his head and pulled back just as fast.

"I won't hurt you," he croaked, in reality fearing  _they_ would hurt  _him_. "I just need help... I can't see..."

Silence was his only answer, and for a while he lay there, losing hope, certain it was all in his head.

"You are not blind."

The voice was soft, high-pitched, like a child's, and Jon almost cried in relief. In listening to a voice that was not his, in hearing all was not lost.

"Not to us."

And with that, Jon's relief died as soon as it lived.

* * *

Larys studied the dwarf intently.

"Hail Lord Tyrion," she declared from her seat. "Haven welcomes you."

Tyrion gave a dramatic bow, swallowed by his ridiculous furs like a bear cub.

"House Lannister thanks you my Lady," he said cheekily. "I hear a child is to be born."

"Yes," Larys said with a smile, beckoning him to the table. "In three moons Gods willing."

He obediently partook in eating the bread and salt, then settling into the seat beside her. Before him was a generous portion of lamb drizzled in honey and cinnamon. But it was the wine he reached for first.

"I warn you," she laughed. "That it Dornish drink. Very strong."

Indeed it was. Larys had ensured it was so.

"My favourite kind," Tyrion cheered. "What is dinner if you do not vomit it up right after?"

She shook her head and smiled, sipping her lemon water and nibbling at a mildly spiced chicken breast. Other meat was too rich and came straight up again.

"How was the Wall?" she asked politely. "Do you meet my husband again?"

"That I did, as solemn and quiet as ever," he said. "And the Wall, an absolute miracle of architecture. But alas, I had to leave lest my balls shrivel up from the cold. We could not have that."

"No," she agreed, sarcasm mostly reigned in. "How would we survive?"

Tyrion Lannister only laughed and drank more wine. She filled his cup with all the poise of a graceful host and slyness of a woman that thirsted for knowledge.

"The whores would weep for the loss of my golden cock!"

"The loss of your golden coin," she corrected, flicking his nose.

He scoffed and batted away her hand, but he was beaming.

"If only you were not wed, my Lady," he boomed. "We would poison my Lord Father, the woman of angry Dorne and the son who was born a dwarf."

"Do not speak of treason so easily," she said sharply. "Or kin-slaying. Easy words make easy hands."

Tyrion ignored her and drained his cup, reaching for the jug before she could. He slopped half of it onto the table.

Cup after cup he poured.

"Perhaps it is best we are not wed," he slurred. "You'd scold me into an early grave."

"You flatter me, but I think we both know drink will be the death of you."

Drunk Tyrion was either horrid or hilarious, she'd found, and in light of recent events, she realised she was leaning towards the first. What sort of man wasted such talent and brilliance on wine and whores? It was like wiping your arse with gold leaf.

But she needed him good and drunk, and he was doing half the work for her.

"Kin-slaying is not something most talk about," she said calmly, sniffing her water. "Is your family so dysfunctional?"

"Pah!" he exclaimed. "Dysfunctional! One kills children, the other kills kings, the third would kill both if she could get away with it!"

Larys raised her eyebrows with enough surprise to egg him on but not deter him.

"But the Queen is so beautiful," she lied skilfully. "Why would such treason cross her mind?"

"You don't know her," he said viciously.

_I don't, my Lord,_  she thought to herself,  _do tell me more._

"She is a dog," he hissed. "A rabid dog with goals but no way of reaching them. So she screams and shouts and scratches until she gets what she wants. She schemes with low cunning, manipulates those around her, fools them all with her  _grace_ and  _beauty_. But this rose has no petals and far too many thorns."

Larys' heart sank with every word. Poor Ned, poor noble Ned. If Cersei had low cunning, who were the true snakes of Kings Landing? How would he know who to trust?

"A shame the King wed such a woman," she sighed. "A shame she is the mother of his children. How could they stand each other?"

Here she would know. Did Cersei Lannister have a lover? Whose seed lay beside her golden hair?

"They can't," he scoffed. "They despise each other. But he gives her a crown and she gives him Lannister gold so they suffer each other's presence."

Larys was desperate, so close to the answers she sought. She poured him more wine.

"At least, if and when the King dies, she will be free to wed whoever she pleases," she said. "Her son would be King. Who could deny her?"

"Who could deny her indeed. Controlling that blonde ponce, the true ruler of Westeros," he grumbled. "But only in her mind. Our father would wed her off, no matter how much she hates the idea."

So Cersei Lannister did not wish to wed again? If Larys was to read into that, then perhaps the Queen's lover was someone she could not wed. Perhaps a lowly knight, perhaps even one of the Kingsguard. Mayhaps that handsome Arys Oakheart.

But Tyrion was beginning to repeat himself, and she needed to finish this.

From her lap she lifted a dagger, valyrian steel, one she knew better than she wished. Her hands, hidden beneath the leather gloves she had taken to wearing, shook slightly as the blade shone in the candle light.

"Do you know whose this is, my Lord?" she asked quietly, watching him intently. "I am not so familiar with the Lords of Kings Landing, but surely a man rich enough for valyrian steel is well know?"

Tyrion Lannister gaped at the knife in her hands, and she knew at once she had hit the jackpot.

"It's  _mine_."

She frowned, lips pressed together in a stern line. What fool confessed to a crime? But Tyrion Lannister was not so stupid, surely, even drunk. Not many knew of the assassination attempt, so doubtless, if he was the assassin, he would feign ignorance?

"It's yours?" she asked, voice low.

"Well not anymore," he said bitterly. "I lost it to Littlefinger betting on my brother."

Here Larys paused, rolling the name over and over in her head. She did not know a Littlefinger.

"Littlefinger?"

"The Master of Coin," he said. "Sneakiest bastard that ever lived... How did you come across that blade?"

"I caught a squire playing with it at Winterfell," she said smoothly. "Clearly he had stolen it. I meant to give it to the king, but with Bran's fall it completely slipped my mind."

Tyrion swallowed the story with a shrug, and Larys decided she had far too much to think on without having entertain the dwarf, so passed the cup to another.

"Louella?" she called. "Come here darling."

The maid, a startlingly pretty woman with pale white hair and pale blue eyes, came to her side, lowering her top at Larys' subtle command. She was no ordinary maid, but moonlighted as a whore, one Larys knew well. A good friend of Larys, she had never thought a whore would become her most trusted companion.

"Louella will show you to your rooms," she said to the drunk dwarf. "Sleep well Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion grinned lustfully and toddled away, beckoning the grinning girl to follow. Larys kissed her cheek softly and slipped a coin quietly into her hand.

"Don't let him think," she whispered. "Let him remember nothing of this night but you."

Louella smile a dangerous smile, and the white of her teeth shone.

"That's my job."

* * *

Larys sat in her solar, Jon's in truth, but he spent so little time here she felt it was hers. Her mind whirred.

What she knew was worrying. Cersei Lannister despised her husband, enough, Larys decided, that she could well have a lover. The dried seed and strand of hair at Winterfell was proof enough.

Who the lover was, was something Larys was fiercely trying to guess. The day Bran fell had been the day Fat King Robert went hunting, taking half of Winterfell with him. The lover must have been among the few knights left behind. Was the man in the Royal Retinue? Surely, because if her suspicions were correct, then no man of Winterfell would dare harm the son of his Lord.

So the man travelled with the Royals, was in regular proximity to Queen Cersei, and had abstained from hunting on the day of the crime. But alas, from there, Larys could not progress.

And then there was the knife. That was what sent a shaft of fear into her belly. Littlefinger, this man she did not know, had sent an assassin to murder Bran. Why? What in seven hells did he stand to gain from it? She could not  _believe_ it was him- everything had pointed to the Lannisters.

With a gasp, she realised. Tentatively, the thought bloomed. Had this Littlefinger done this  _knowing_ she would suspect the Lannisters? Was he trying to turn them against each other?

A war between Starks and Lannisters, between lions and wolves. What would he gain from it? To be fair, she had not known his name, Petyr Baelish, and clearly he had climbed his way to the top, one way or another. Perhaps he meant to keep on climbing.

What if... what if the hair and seed in the tower had been planted there? What if this was all some intricate ploy to turn two Great Houses to war? Could it be? Could he maim a boy for power?

No matter the answer, no matter the ploy, Larys did know one thing. Ned needed to get out of the capital, and  _fast_.

A knock on the door, and she absent-mindedly called enter, making a plan. In came Louella, hair mussed and dress slipping from her shoulder. Her lips were swollen and Larys spied several love bites on her pale white neck.

"The Little Lord is a talented man," she said breathlessly, collapsing into the seat beside her. "I have half a mind to pay  _him_."

Larys hummed, rubbing circles on her belly, watching the fire dance in the hearth.

"My Lady?" she asked tentatively.

Larys turned her head and assessed her, her clever blue eyes, porcelain skin, and straight hair the colour wheat.

"Are you loyal to me, Louella?"

Louella's eyes widened at the question.

"Of course!" she exclaimed. "You gave me a life other than pox-ridden whoredom!"

It was true. Now she was her own personal hand-maid, with her own bed and clothes, fresh food every day and a multitude of guards to flirt with. Larys found, as a woman herself, whores she helped were more loyal than any paid man.

"I have a task for you," she said carefully. "One that may be dangerous. But I trust none but you and one other to do this for me."

The woman frowned, but her eyes were interested, and Larys knew she desired to see more than the North.

"Who is the other?"

Here Larys smiled, shaking her head in exasperation.

"A cousin of mine," she said vaguely, smirking. "I sense the two of you will get along merrily."

* * *

Jon sat still as stone, resting against a tree, ridges and bumps digging into his back, but he relished the feeling. He knew what was behind him, every twist and knot. They could not take that at least.

"The wolf found you."

He started, went to blink but realise he could not. As if half his face was missing.

"We knew who you are. I have been watching you."

The voice was old, and yet timeless.

"You and your wife."

Jerking his head towards the voice, Jon gasped sharply.

"You know of her? How? Who are you?" A pause, as his voice dropped to a whisper. "Are you the voices she hears?"

"...No."

Jon deflated a little. So many questions, sprouting like weeds with no answer in sight.

"Both of you are touched by the Gods. You have a greater purpose than any can imagine. You will be King, and she will be Queen, but you both will be more.

"And she will be your other half and you will be hers. There cannot be one without the other. This is your curse, for fate is a blade with no hilt. Without her you are weak. Together, you will be her eyes and she will be your ears. Together, you will rule. Apart, you will die."

"How can I be King?" Jon protested, spluttering. "How can I be her eyes? I am blind! Curse your riddles!"

Silence.

"You are not blind. You will see."

And before Jon could say another word, he was hauled to his feet by countless, insistent hands, stumbled after them. The air became colder and colder until he knelt in snow and knew he was outside.

Soft hands touched his face and he jerked back with a cry. But their fingers gripped his hair and washed his eyes with snow. He shivered.

At last, feeling began to return and he tentatively touched his own face, tracing a jagged scar down his eye. Hideous, raw, and he did not need to see to know it.

Light began to filter through and he watched the dancing stars inside his eye lids.

"You will right the wrongs that have been made. You will ready the Living in the war against the Dead."

The voice came from within him, filled with wisdom he could not fathom.

"You will Father a dynasty that spans the ages."

He opened his eyes. Blinding light, reflecting off the snow like a thousand glittering diamonds.

"You will  _see._ "

And oh what he saw.

Jon Stark began to weep tears of blood.


	18. Ice Eyes

**Ice Eyes**

Jon sat beside the river, watching the snow float gently to the ground. It was serene, and he did not feel the cold. Not anymore.

He couldn't believe it, couldn't believe what had happened to him. That  _wights_ existed, that the Others did too. It was like falling asleep and waking up in a nightmare.

But all he needed to do was look at his reflection in the river to know it was all true. Two icy blue eyes stared back at him, glowing eerily in a pale face.

So many times he had questioned whether he was alive or not. His hands were littered with tiny cuts, the remains of his paranoia driving him to see if he still bled. Nothing made him feel as good as watching the red blood ooze out, tracing a path across his skin like spilt ink.

His eyes lifted from the water and he watched the woman and girl across the river. Mother and daughter, they stared at him, throats gaping wide like a grim smile. The edges of them shimmered like smoke and the little girl waved. He lifted his hand and waved back.

Jon wondered who did that to them. This was his curse, to see the dead but never know what killed them. The girl opened her mouth to talk but he could not hear her and shook his head sadly. So much sorrow, so much old pain, and he would never know why.

What was there left for him in the world? The Children and Bloodraven told him he could not pass the Wall, that it was filled with magic that kept him out and away from the living.

That hurt, was like an icy dagger to the heart. He was not dead; he was not alive, but hovered in an empty chasm in between. Who knew how fragile life was? It was a silver thread that slipped through his fingers every time he tried to hold it.

And he would never see Larys again. Would never see her grow big with his child, never see her dance again, or sing, or laugh. He would never be there to hold her hand while she birthed, would not be there to kiss their son and name him. He would never be a Father, and his boy would grow up as lost and abandoned as he did.

Jon closed his eyes, imagined his babe holding his finger with tiny pink hand, squeezing with all the childish strength he could muster, pulling faces at his son until he gurgled a laugh, rocking him back and forth and watching Larys put him to sleep. His heart ached like an open wound and he felt hot tears fall.

How was it fair? How was it fair that he had to stay in this god-forsaken land whilst horrible men lived lives he could only dream of?

Leaning against a tree, he turned his head to study the sledge beside him. Beneath that black cloak was the corpse of his Uncle. The chasm grew deeper.

Dark hair spilled over the side, like poison ivy creeping into his peripheral vision, reminding him of his failure. That he had lived where Benjen died. That he, the ignorant, green boy was walking and talking and mourning whilst Benjen Stark rotted.

Except he did not rot. The Children had preserved his body, made him look so  _full_  he half expected Benjen to wake up and ask what the time was. But Jon would take that a thousand times over fearing he would have to fight his Uncle's living corpse. Would he be able to do it? He doubted it. Even if Benjen's face was but an unrecognisable skull with remnants of blackened skin clinging to the contours he would still be Uncle Benjie. And wasn't kin-slaying a sin?

At last he rose, and began to drag the sledge south, continuing his monotone journey. The least he could do was send Benjen's body to Winterfell, somehow. He would not let the only man that understood him, that remained a constant, that was still his Uncle when his Aunt became his Mother, to crumble to bone and dust in this wasteland, so far from anyone that cared.

The Wall became a sliver of white in the distance, and Jon waded through the snow with growing dread. He did not want the Night's Watch to see him, to see the monster he had become. Doubtless they would try and kill him, spurred on by his eyes. Would swing a sword into his flesh and see too late that he bled.

Jon's cloak was white, gifted to him by the Children, and somehow, against the snow, he was undetectable. Like Ghost- who knew where the snow ended and wolf began.

The Watch certainly did not, and he was undisturbed by horn or rider as he made his way to the Gate. Had they not seen the body? How could he get their attention without giving himself away?

The sledge directly in front of the gate, he sat against the Wall, tilting his head back to stare up its towering face. This was what barred him from his family, from his home. Beneath his palm it was nothing but frozen water, snow that was soft to the touch, but Jon knew better. It was the creation of Bran the Builder that kept away the Dead, and unwittingly, his own kin.

The familiar sound of cogs turning, and Jon was startled by the noise. He had become so used to silence, the grating on his ears made him grimace. But he gathered himself and watched carefully as the gate rose and out stepped a single figure.

Jon could not see who it was, could not make out the face beneath the black. He watched in silence as the man knelt beside the body and pulled back the cloak, heard his sigh on the wind when he realised it was Benjen.

Heart thumping, Jon pressed himself into the Wall as the man searched for who brought the body. By some miracle, Jon was not seen, and the man in black made to turn and drag the body inside. And Jon was prepared to let him.

Until, no doubt sent from the Gods, the raven, Mormont's raven, big and black with beady eyes, landed on the snow beside him.

" _Stark,_ " it croaked. " _Stark."_

Jon closed his eyes in tempered frustration, and opened to see the man in black watching. Sensing there was no other option, Jon rose to his feet, and as he did so, the hood fell and the black of his hair and beard was like smoke.

Slowly, silently, he walked forward, and as the man grew bigger in his vision, he realised who it was. Lord Commander Mormont, the owner of the blasted bird itself. The limp, the beard, the bald head, and Jon wondered what he should think.

"Stark," the man breathed as Jon neared. "We thought you were dead."

But as Jon came close enough for Mormont to see, the older man stumbled back with a gasp, yanking Longclaw from its sheath.

" _Your eyes!"_

Jon froze, now a foot away from the terrified man who once had sent shafts of fear into Jon's own belly. Now Jon was the monster.

"I am not dead," he said softly. "Look."

And for the hundredth time, he pulled out the knife and cut into his hand. The blood ran like a river, dripping onto the pristine snow and staining it a startling red.

"I bleed," he said, sighing. "Like you."

Mormont did not scream for help, did not swing his sword, but inched closer, blade held in front of him. Once close enough to study Jon's face, he squinted tentatively.

"I'll be damned," he whispered. "What the fuck happened?"

"We were attacked," Jon said quietly. "By wights. I thought they were a myth, but no. They're real. They killed Benjen and they would have killed me if the storm hadn't stopped. Ghost found my body and took me to the Children of the Forest before I could turn."

Jon did not tell him what he saw, did not tell him that now, right here, they were surrounded by thousands of wildling spirits. Did not tell him how they stared blankly at the Wall that killed them, or the people behind it. Did not tell him that Jon could hardly see the snow for the amount of feet that stood upon it.

"Children of the Forest?" Mormont spluttered.

When Jon simply nodded, Mormont gaped. If it were not for the eyes, the eyes he knew would haunt him for all the nights to come, he would have laughed in Jon Stark's face. But what could he do when the proof stood right in front of him? What could he do but believe?

"We need to get you South, Stark," Mormont said finally, shaking his head. "See if Aemon can change your eyes, see if we can do something about them scars.  _Gods_... what the fuck am I supposed to do against the Others? This best not be a giant bloody jape..."

Jon held up his hand and Mormont fell silent in an instant.

"I cannot go South. Not now. Not ever."

Mormont's face fell, and Jon watched as the man realised his fate. He likely thanked the Gods it was not him.

"Jon..."

"There is nothing to pity, my Lord," he said calmly, though he raged inside. "The Gods mark a path for every man. This is mine, and I will walk it."

_I will walk it, I will run it, I will jump it_ , Jon thought, _and if there is any justice in the world, Larys will be at the end._

"My wife," Jon said suddenly, and such utter despair flickered in his eyes that Jeor felt his heart break. "Do not tell her the truth. Tell her I went missing. Let my son be born healthy and safe. Let him be raised knowing I loved him. But tell him, tell her,  _nothing_  else. No one can know. Let Jon Stark die. That is all I ask."

Mormont's face was filled with grief. This man, this man so young and yet so old, so dead and yet  _so alive_...

"I will honour this promise, till my last day," Jeor said firmly.

A pause as Jeor stared at him fiercely. He heard the raven scream. What was it saying?

_King. King. King_.

"If there is nothing more I can do, if there is nothing more I can say," Jeor began, suddenly confident. "Then at least I can give you this."

He began unbuckling his belt, pulling free the scabbard and sheathing Longclaw. He held it out.

Jon stared at the sword in Mormont's hands, Valyrian steel he knew, more valuable than any jewel in the world. The pride of humble House Mormont.

"I cannot take this."

"You must," Jeor insisted. "For my honour. Let me die knowing I aided Jon Stark. Let me die knowing this sword is in worthy hands. Let me die knowing it defends the lands of the living from the dead."

Jon was frozen. Jeor smiled sadly and gave him the sword, wrapping Jon's cold hand around the hilt with his warm one.

"It is yours. May it serve you well Jon Ice Eyes."


	19. Tears

**Tears**

Louella watched the scurrying people of White Harbour from beneath her hood. Many ships were docked in the harbour, but she only looked for one.

"The Daughter?" she asked a one-eyed man smoking his pipe. "Is she here?"

He gave an indecipherable grumble and nodded at the ship further off, a trade galley, sails white with a cyan star. Louella swallowed. An educated woman would have known to look for her Lady's maiden sigil- why hadn't she thought of that?

_Because you aren't educated_ , she thought fiercely to herself,  _you can hardly read_.

She shook her head and drew herself up, beginning to walk through the docks. Lady Larys did not care for education. She cared about loyalty, and common sense, and the Lady herself said Louella had plenty of both.

It helped she was beautiful, she thought proudly, pulling back her hood and revelling in the stares. Louella would savour it here, while she could. Lady Larys said in Kings Landing she would need to be invisible- people remembered pretty faces, she'd said. A thrill of excitement at the thought of the capital. It was a stinking pit of snakes, she'd been told, but it was the  _capital_. She'd never known anyone who travelled there and bothered to come back.

Or maybe they  _couldn't_ come back. Even the thought of danger made her feel alive.

"Excuse me," she called up to a random sailor.

He was tanned and dark-haired, Dornish she realised with a start. Well of course, the Lady  _was_ half Dornish.

"Is there an Eli Anerion?" Louella asked, rolling the foreign name over her tongue.

"Right behind you, love," whispered a voice in her ear.

Louella gasped and turned, lashing out with her nails. Before she could blink, he caught her wrist and grinned.

He was devilishly handsome, she had to admit. Aquiline nose and violet eyes, skin brown and hair black as coal. It hung to his shoulders, thick and unbound, and for a moment he reminded her of a lion. There was something feline about him, in the graceful stance, the cocksure arrogance of his lop-sided smirk.

But Louella was no stranger to beauty and shook back her hair, yanking her hand from his and glaring up at him.

"They'll eat you alive down South," he snickered, eying her up. "Unless I get there first."

"You'd have to pay me," she hissed, narrowing pale eyes.

That only seemed to please him and he grinned lazily, tugged a lock of her hair.

"Feisty," he practically purred. "How much?"

He was joking, it was clear, but it hit a nerve with Louella and she arranged her face into the most regal and snobby expression she could, turning around with a dramatic swish of her skirts.

"Where are you going?" he exclaimed, but she ignored him.

She continued walking, listened to him curse as he tried to catch her, stumbling through the crowd where she had slid through it.

Some of his more colourful curses coaxed a small smile that turned into a beam she bit her lips to hide. Filled with sudden childish abandon, Louella began to lead him in circles, leaping up the steps and onto The Daughter when his back was turned. She peeked over the side of the ship, watched him spin in helpless circles, scanning the crowd for her.

"Up here lover boy!"

She balanced on the bow of the ship, hair flying in the wind. He stared up at her, stunned, and she flashed him a wink, glad to be back in control.

* * *

The journey by sea was long and arduous, and Louella found her closest companion was a bucket filled with her own vomit.

"Oh Gods," she groaned, face pale and slightly green, hair damp with sweat and plastered to her face.

The ship rocked over another wave, and she retched. A knock at the door, but she was too busy throwing up her insides to hear.

"Seven Hells," Eli hissed, clamping and hand to his nose. "It fucking  _stinks_."

Louella spat out her bile and raised her head to give him the most withering glare she could manage.

"Speak or I swear on the Old Gods and the New I will vomit on your shoes."

He calmly sat down, hiding his feet, and pulled out a letter.

"We need to go over the plan."

"Not again..."

"I am meeting with Lord Stark," he interrupted loudly, "to broker the trade agreement between him and my Father as part of the dowry of Larys to Jon. As such, I will be given private audience with him. In that time, I will broker the agreement as normal, and hand him Larys' letter. He will ready his daughters, preferably lie to the ginger girl, Larys says she's an idiot, and will hide you amongst the maids. You will watch them, day and night. The next day, I will return with a contract and request he see the goods for himself in order to verify the deal. I will escort him onto the ship, and you will follow with the girls under the pretence that I have silks I wish to sell and they must choose from them.

"If all goes well, we set sail for White Harbour two days hence. Are we clear?"

"Mother of Mercy," she rasped. "You've given me the same speech every damn day. Leave me to my misery."

He reached out with a hand and pulled the hair from her face, surprisingly tender.

"I do not want to fail," he admitted. "This is more important than either of us. Lord and Ladies, Kings and Queens, conspiracies galore and spies at every corner. What if the Spider finds out? What if Littlefinger does? What then?"

"We run like the floor is on fire," she said dryly, rubbing her lips. "The plan is meticulous. The only risk is that someone will question my presence and why they have not seen me until now. To which I will say Lord Stark met me and my child on the streets and gave me a job when I said I was Northern. If they ask to see my child, I take them to an alley and kill them."

"No," he protested. "You take them to  _me_ and  _I_ killthem."

Louella just rolled her eyes, feeling she was steady enough that her nausea had temporarily passed.

"The whore and the whoremonger," she laughed. "We make a wonderful pair."

He grin, and it sent a warm feeling through her to see his worries melt off his face.

"I think we do," he charmed, and she shook her head with a smile. "Honestly!"

"Don't mock me Anerion," she warned softly.

She rose and rinsed her mouth with a pail of water to the side, washing her face.

"I'm not," he said, too quiet for her to hear.

* * *

Time had passed and Larys was confused. Her mind was so full of nonsense she could hardly think. Stress over Ned, stress over the baby, stress over Jon.

Where was he? He swore he would return soon, so that he would be by her side when she birthed. That day was getting closer and closer, and often she gasped at what Maester Gerrard called 'false labour'. They often had her reeling, the ferocity, the clenching of her abdomen like a God had wrapped a fist around her insides and squeezed.

But it seemed the Gods held her heart in their unfeeling hands now. The letter lay forgotten beside her, and Larys buried her face in her hands. Tears traced a river down her cheeks.

Jon was dead.

She felt she might die from the pain, might keel over right there and then. How, she wondered, could the body be so healthy when she was in this much pain? Jon, sweet Jon, noble Jon,  _her_ Jon. Was he dead? Was he rotting in some frozen wasteland?

Why, she thought bitterly, why why why. Of all men in this damned world, he was the best. Could the Gods not take another? He was the last of a dynasty, the father of a child, the husband to a wife. Her thudding heart lay firmly beside his dead one.

_No,_  she thought fiercely,  _not dead_.

It could not be. He could not die that way, alone in the cold. He did not deserve that. Surely the Gods had some mercy? How he had loved her, how he had treated her like a Queen. No other man had looked at her the way he had, with such respect, such awe, such understanding. He whom had tugged her curls till she smiled, who knew to tickle her beneath her chin, who knew how she loved to bake. He, with the dark hair, with the stormy eyes, with all his regal beauty.

Jon. Who had called her friend, lover, wife. Who would have been a father, who would have righted all the wrongs that had been made. Who had cleaned the bloods from her hands and kissed away her sins. Jon.

And so she wept, and she wept, and Larys Stark mourned the loss of the man who was the greatest of them all.

* * *

Larys sat in the carriage, face severe. Where once there had been a soft, happy roundness to her face, there were hard, sharp canyons.

From behind the curtain she could see the Wall, and yet, she felt no awe, no amazement. It was a wall, made of ice. It was tall. It was big. It had killed her husband.

The men guarding the carriage were loyal, but afraid. Lady Larys had been a constant- when Lord on left, she stayed. When the wildlings came, she defended their families. When children were hungry, she fed them from her table. And now, not a moon away from her birthing, she travelled in all her grace to see the body of her husband. If it was there.

_I will not believe it_ , she thought to herself, even though half of her did,  _not until I touch his cold dead body with my own two hands_.

Her heart was stone, hidden beneath layers and layers of ugly callous. A shrivelled thing, it was dying without him. She could feel it in her bones. Her time was ending.

In torment, in woe, and yet Larys knew if Jon was dead than so was she. She did not know how, she did not know why, but she knew that if this was the pain she felt at the chance, then only the Stranger awaited her at the certainty.

"My Lady."

She turned, face blank, and realised the carriage had stopped. A soldier peeked his head in, apprehensive.

"We are here," he said. "Castle Black."

Larys nodded silent and rose with great difficulty, taking his hand as he helped her out. Breathing heavily through her nose, it was a wonder she had not collapsed under the sheer size of her son. She was  _huge_.

Jory awaited her, and held his arm for her to take, but she straightened and shook her head, walking past him slowly but strongly.

Castle Black was an ugly place. More a series of half-ruined houses than a castle, a collapsed tower in the corner. But the Wall was the true wonder here, and she tilted her head back to see its peak with cold eyes. If only it would melt, the great big eye-sore.

_And then me and the wildlings can have a party_ , she laughed madly to herself.

A hundred eyes stared at her as she reached the forefront of the procession, all dressed in black. She bristled at their leers, and stood as if her spine was made of iron. Larys glared at them all with such fierce hate she did wonder how they hadn't turned to ash.

"My Lady."

A quiet voice, a calm voice, she examined its owner. And old man, bald and bearded, face frozen in a grimace by time.

"Lord Commander Mormont," she said icily, giving him her hand to kiss. "Where is my husband?"

"My Lady," he said carefully, and she felt their judgement burning her. "If I could show you to your rooms."

Larys studied him for a moment, before nodding stiffly and taking his proffered arm. She'd be better off helping  _him_ walk, the wizened old bear.

_This was the man that scared Jon so?_  She thought with a scoff.

The courtyard erupted into debate as soon as the doors swung shut behind them, but she did not care. Two hundred men she had brought, fierce, Northern men. These southern rapists and thieves could judge her all she liked. They had no power.

Lady Larys ruled now.


	20. Rivers of Blood

**Rivers of Blood**

The excuses were feeble. With every fumbled attempt to reassure her, she felt dread fill her. But with ever moment she did not see his body, the tiny, naive, hopeful girl inside her clung to the possibility he was still alive.

"You have my Uncle but not my Husband," she said finally, interrupting the mumbling.

Ser Alliser Thorne grimaced, but nodded.

"How many men did you send?"

"Twenty, my Lady."

"And you mean to tell me," she said dangerously, rising from her seat to glower at them, "That every one of them was killed by wildlings?"

A silence, the men glanced at each other apprehensively.

"Aye, that is what we think."

" _Two Starks_ ," she hissed. "Two members of a Great House, an ancient House, have  _died_ under your watch and you tell me aye? How in Seven Hells could great big blundering wildlingskill Benjen and Jon Stark?"

Ser Alliser's face was stoic, sour, and the others watched them. Larys hardly reached his shoulders but her hair crackled with fury and her eyes blazed so that it was as though a wolf was snarling at them and not a pregnant woman.

"They were outnumbered. The body indicated that they were taken by surprise, a stab wound in the First Ranger's back."

"And how is it you have my Uncle's body and not Lord Stark's?"

She had seen Benjen's body. Cold and dry, void of even a single drop of blood, but even in death his face was calm and soothing, and she held back tears at the memories of him dancing with her at Winterfell. How he looked like Jon. Why did all the good men die?

"It was brought to us, likely by the wildlings," he said stonily, but she knew a man of his arrogance must be embarrassed at this blunder, "They have respect for strong fighters."

"I'm sure that's why they stabbed him in the back," she snapped. "And I suppose they skipped up to the Wall, dropped off the body of a man they killed, and danced right back home."

His face twisted into one of such ugly malevolence, the other men stiffened. She felt a sudden mad desire to laugh.

"...Aye."

"It seems to me," she sneered, "That the Night's Watch is a farce and is filled with cursed men. The best thing Lord Eddard Stark has ever done was give me your land."

The room fell silent, and she stared down the pathetic excuse for a knight whose face was filled with hate. Each man in the room felt like a child again, as this woman who could have been their daughter shamed them with words none had dared say.

"Lord Stark will be mourned."

"Do not think," Lady Larys went on, ignoring his comment. "That with Lord Stark's death Haven will return to you.  _I_ will rule the Gift with an iron fist.

Here Larys turned away from the knight to face the Lord Commander, who sat silent in his chair, watching her with tired eyes. Promise was written on her face.

"And the trade deal between us? No more. You will find your food and men elsewhere. Any trust or respect for the Night's Watch died with my husband."

* * *

Larys sat on the bed, staring blankly at the wall. All energy, all fury had fled as soon as the door closed behind her. She had made her point, had said what she wanted to say.

She wrapped the woollen blanket tighter around her- her heart beat was slow and quiet beneath her hands. The wind howled, and the door rattled on its hinges. Her room was on the bottom floor- stairs were not an option anymore.

The fire in the hearth was but a sham, and her fingers lost all feeling. And yet, Larys did not care. She only listened, finding refuge in the raging storm outside. It mirrored the one within.

A howl and she jerked from her trance, hands curling into fists. Something about that howl was familiar- again, and the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Larys climbed to her feet, swaying for a moment before she found her balance. One hand on her belly and she stumbled to the door, yanking it open to be met by Jory's surprised face.

"It is but a wolf, Larys," he said gently. "Go back inside. It is not healthy to be so cold in your state."

Shaking her head wordlessly, she pushed past him, holding the blanket around her like a lifeline. Fighting the wind, she crossed the empty courtyard, boots slipping in the cold. Her lips were blue and her teeth chattered, yet nothing mattered but the howls on the wind.

Jory called after her but it was swept away in the storm, and it was a moment before she felt his hand on her shoulder.

"Larys!" he shouted into her ear. "Turn back!"

She turned her head to look at him and realised how close he was. Touching a hand softly to his bearded cheek, she took in his face.

"I cannot," she whispered, and somehow he heard her. "If I do I will spend the rest of my life wishing I hadn't."

Larys kissed his cheek gently, and turned away, clutching her belly as if with enough force she could push her son into her very soul. A growl of frustration, and after some hesitation, Jory followed.

They reached the gate of the Wall. Dark and imposing.

"Open it!"

Jory stared at her in shock, following her pointed finger to the gate itself.

"Fuck no!"

"Do it," she snarled, and a hint of her old self returned. "I am your Lady! You will do as I command!"

He shook his head fiercely, hair tangled in the wind.

"I will not! You are not yourself."

Another howl, long and haunting, and Larys felt desperation claw at her throat.

"Don't you  _see?"_ she screeched over the wind. "That's Ghost! I cannot lose him too!"

Jory was torn, and though he had never heard Ghost howl in his life, he was overcome by the sudden urge to obey. Running to the chain, he pulled, and pulled, turning the cog, and the gate slowly rose. With every inch, Ghost grew quieter, and Larys felt tears of frustration freeze on her cheeks.

Sprinting forward, she ignored Jory's shouts and ducked beneath the gate as soon as it allowed.

Silence- there was no wind here. A long , tunnel-like cavern, and at the end she spied the second gate. Above her was the entire weight of the Wall, and if it fell, now, she would be crushed beneath it.

Lifting her skirts in her hands, Larys ran as fast as her son would allow, stumbling, blanket falling from her shoulders and lying forgotten on the floor. Her hair streamed behind her, like smoke, and as she neared the second gate, Jory far away and long forgotten, she heard scratching.

Larys crashed into the gate in a flurry of sobs and hot tears, banging on it with her fists.

"Jon!" she screamed. " _Jon!_ "

Suddenly the only noise was her laboured breathing, and for a terrifying moment, she thought she was wrong, completely wrong, that a wolf in the forest was calling his brothers and nobody was on the other side of this gate but snow.

"Jon?" she breathed, frantic. " _Please..."_

A shifting on the other side- her heart beat a fierce rhythm in her chest.

"...Larys?"

Larys burst into fresh tears, falling to her knees, pressing her cheek into the gate like it was a lover.

"Oh, Jon," she sobbed. "Jon... Thank the Gods..."

A shuffling and his voice, like the dawn, and she wept anew to hear it again.

"It's alright, I'm here," Jon said, voice soothing. "I'm right next to you."

With every word he spoke Larys felt an all-consuming desire to feel him, to touch him, to see him. She scrambled to her feet and to the chain at the side.

"Lift!" she screamed. "Help me!"

Larys pulled with all the strength she could muster, and the tender scars on her hands bled again, smearing the cold metal with hot blood. Hands slipping, she regained purchase and with a cry heaved with all her weight. The gate rose with an almighty groan, and from beneath it, two hands wrapped around and lifted, and beside them, a snuffling white nose. She laughed, laughed hysterically, overcome with dizzy joy at the sight of them. As soon as it was high enough, she let go, knowing it would stay in place, and ran.

Before he could blink, she ducked beneath the gate and barrelled into his arms. Jon held her, tears falling from blue eyes, holding her tight and burying his face into her hair.

Larys sobbed into his chest, weak with relief, with joy.

"You're alive," she gasped. "Gods you're  _alive_..."

Jon hushed her, stroking her hair. Her sobs died and she buried her face in his neck, kissing it tenderly. He shivered, and a tear fell down his cheek at her warmth and love. He dreaded the moment she looked into his eyes.

Larys pulled away, and he had a mad urge to hold her in place, but move she did. Tilting her head to look at him, she froze.

"Your..."

Her voice trailed to a whisper and Jon waited, braced himself for the disgust, the fear. He closed his ice blue eyes- perhaps she would not feel so violated then.

"Oh Jon..."

He felt her hand, soft and warm and slick with blood, rest against his cheek, and tears slid from beneath his lashes.

"What happened?"

"The Others killed Benjen and wounded me. Ghost found my body and brought me to the Children of the Forest. They stopped me from becoming one of  _them_ but they could not change my eyes."

Jon's voice was monotone, eyes firmly shut. Suddenly, soft lips pressed against his and his eyes flew open to see the pure love and adoration in hers. His knees went weak.

Tenderly, he kissed her back, and felt a rush of a thousand emotions he thought he'd forgotten- all his fears, all his frustration, all his fury died at her touch, and he became Jon again. Memories flashed before his eyes; stealing a kiss as children, dancing in the candle light, taking her on the forest floor. The passion, the lust, running his hands along every contour of her body, watching in awe as she tilted her had back with a moan like a heathen goddess. Her laughs and smiles and round cheeks as she felt their child kick. The thick black curls that slept perfect and awoke wild. Larys, his Larys, his love.

"I love you," he whispered, and his voice was raw with yearning. "I love you."

He kissed every part of her face, her tiny button nose, her soft cheeks, her delicate eyelids, and the line of her jaw. He memorised the taste of her beneath his lips, the feel of her skin against his. She shivered, and he took delight in her fervour.

"I am yours and you are mine," she sighed softly, tilting her head back as he nuzzled her neck. "No matter what happens."

He lifted his eyes to look at hers, and brown met blue with utter certainty and complete loyalty.

A nose suddenly wiggled in between them and they laughed to see Ghost, tail wagging. Larys wrapped her arms around his neck, hardly needing to bend down, and her face shone with joy.

"I missed you too Ghost."

The wolf yapped and ran to play in the snow with all the casual grace of one who cares not for the problems of tomorrow. Jon smiled and turned back to his wife.

For the first time, he truly saw how big she was with his child. It gave him a feral sort of pleasure to know why.

Larys saw the pride in his eyes and beamed.

"I cannot wait until he arrives," she said, taking his hands. "Then we can be together, at last. And you'll never ever leave home again."

Her face was soft and hopeful, drunk on dreams, but he knew better. His smile slid away like oil, and she frowned to see it.

"What is it?" she murmured, dreading his answer.

"I cannot go home," he said blankly. "I cannot pass beneath the Wall."

Larys blinked.

"That's ridiculous," she insisted. "Look."

She took his hand before he could protest and dragged him to the gate, ducking her head. She stood on one side and him on the other, and as she tugged him in, Jon held his breathe. And exhaled it, grinning slowly.

"You see, I told you."

"Thank the-"

Jon froze. His face turned to stone and Larys watched in horror as all feeling and humanity bled from his form. His fingers were cold and rigid in hers.

"Jon?"

Silence was her only answer.

" _Jon?"_

What terrified her most were his eyes. They seemed to glow like two sapphires in the dark of the tunnel, and behind them were a thousand screams. Whimpering in fear, she began to push him, urge him away from the Wall. He hit his head on the gate and did not flinch, but she persisted until he stood firmly outside of the gate. Ghost watched with solemn eyes.

"Come back," she whispered, touching his face, eyes wide and frightened. "Please Jon..."

A blink and Jon was back, a flood of emotions shining so bright on his face she felt she might go blind. Her shoulders sagged in relief.

Jon gasped, face drawn in pain, sinking to his knees.

"I'm sorry," Larys wept, kneeling beside him. "I'm so sorry."

"No," he muttered. "No."

He took her face in his hands, and though it was lined with agony, it was alive, it was Jon. She traced his scars, and remembered her own.

"I will find a way," he promised, though his eyes were filled with despair. "Upon the Old Gods and the New, I will come back to you. If it takes months, if it takes years,  _I will come back_."

Larys nodded, but with every word her heart broke, and the pieces were ground to dust beneath the cruel heel of fate. Jon pressed his forehead against hers, and their tears ran like rivers of blood.


	21. Wine

**Wine**

The night was as still as she. The gate, like doom, and she wondered if he still stood on the other side.

Hours, days, weeks passed, she did not know, but she knew the sound of Jory's voice and knew she must answer.

"Larys!"

She turned, dazed.

"One more moment," she whispered, but he did not hear.

_"Larys!"_

But reality was like a bloodhound biting at her heels and so she turned her back on him and returned to her cousin.

The roaring wind was welcome, chasing away the stagnant air of the tunnel- unmoving, as if time itself had frozen. Jory stood waiting, and she wished his hair was darker, his beard longer, his eyes bluer.

He took in the bone white cloak she wore and something in her face silenced him.

"We should return to your rooms."

"Yes," she murmured, though her voice was distant. "Yes we should."

The walk held nothing but silence, and she sailed the seas of her thoughts. Her son kicked in her belly- did he know he had lost his father?

The questions stirred, rearing their heads like an ugly dog, but the wave of numbness drowned it and she returned to silence, both outside and inside.

Her solitude did not truly hit her until she sat in the endless sea of her bed and realised the space where he should have been was cold and empty. Then the tears began, and it was hours before they stopped.

* * *

The walk to the carriage seemed to last a lifetime. The courtyard spanned before her like a desert, and at the end, at the Kingsroad, she saw the wooden safety. But she had a hundred men in black between it and her, and was it so bad that she did not want to be the formidable Lady today? Was it truly so terrible that Larys wanted to crawl beneath her warm furs with a lemon cake and never emerge?

She was tired of being Lady Stark, Lady Targaryen, Lady Cassel, or whatever she was. She was tired of being powerful and making plots and writing letters and manning castles. She just wanted to be Larys again, wanted to return to the time of innocent flirtations and watching Jon from afar. When her greatest worry was that Jon may not love her back, or that Beth had told Jory who'd really eaten his bacon, or that Jory would eat her bacon as revenge because  _she_ had eaten his bacon. Or when Jon used to laugh himself into tears anytime he pulled a leaf from her hair, mostly because it completely clashed with her dignity and they always seemed to find a way into her wild hair.

Now though, her hair was sleek and braided, and there was not a leaf in sight.

Every step, every crunch of snow beneath her boots, every cloud of steam passing through her lips, and she felt a thousand eyes on her like a white hot brand. They made their mark on her skin, pressed their iron heads and melted her flesh, and it sizzled and the smell burnt her nose. She had no walls and their silence was like daggers.

Lord Commander Mormont walked beside her, silent as ever. They reached the carriage at last, and she almost fainted at the familiar site. Her face was pale, and her hand shook as Mormont kissed it. As she stepped into the carriage and looked down at him from the window, she could not help but let a tear roll down her cheek. Every step closer to home was a step further from Jon, and what was home without Jon?

"You know?" he breathed.

Larys stared at him with blank, shining eyes.

"I know."

* * *

Eli watched as Lord Stark closed the door of the Hand's solar, and sat calmly in the seat provided. Lord Eddard Stark was a grim man, an honourable man, he'd noticed, not the first he would seek to befriend. But for Larys' sake, he hoped Lord Stark heeded his good-daughter's warning.

"My Lord," he drawled, exercising his typical Dornish persona, which was his real persona, but  _they_  didn't know that. "I understand there is a dowry to dictate? You are lucky my father is such a generous man and that he dotes on his niece so."

"Indeed," Lord Stark said shortly. "The Lady Larys is an asset to House Stark. The dowry need not be much, she gives us more than gold could."

"I'm sure she will be glad to know she is an 'asset', as you so say," he said, smirking. "Nevertheless, my Father is determined to show the value of my dear cousin, not that she could be matched by mere material. She is a woman indeed to marry, and you and her husband must know that."

She has friends that aren't you, was what he was really saying. No harm in slipping in a brotherly warning amidst all the intrigue. He didn't work for free, after all.

"Understandable," Lord Stark said, nodding. "What do you suggest?"

As they began to rattle off the dowry, which really did need to be sorted out, Eli slipped a note from Larys beneath the contract, filling the room with nonsense about the pros and cons of Arbor Gold as Eddard Stark scanned the note, face becoming grimmer with every word he read.

"I'm afraid I cannot agree to this particular aspect," Lord Stark said suddenly.

"The Arbor Gold? And why is that?"

Eli knew they weren't talking about wine.

"Yes. I have already made preparations on that front. I do not need more."

Lord Stark's face was stern and set, and Eli held back a curse. Larys would have his head if he didn't make the man see past his honour.

"My Father feared this might happen, and dearly wished to be the one talking to you. He insists you will not find a better offer from a more trustworthy man. He says there are things about wine Northmen simply do not understand, so when they are forced to buy it and drink it, it falls onto the shoulders of men like my father to ensure nothing goes wrong."

"Tell him I have adjusted my taste and have found it more tolerable as of late," Stark said guardedly.

"This may be the best chance you have my Lord. My Father is famous in this field- we have many a vineyard in both Dorne and Lys."

"I have made my decision Lord Anerion."

Eli sighed heavily, and the look he gave Stark was full of meaning.

"At the very least, take my Father up on his final offer."

That was Louella- if anything, she could watch over the girls until Lord Stark came to his senses.

Stark hesitated.

"Aye. Although I do not think it will last long in the heat," he said carefully.

"It is a hardy drink and endures well," Eli replied, struggling to keep affection from clouding his voice- she truly was an incredible woman. "Nonetheless, you must check the cargo aboard the ship soon, my Lord. We will be in dock for another week I believe."

"Until then Lord Anerion."

Eli nodded and rose, and he and Stark locked eyes for a moment. Stark was a stubborn man, but Eli knew what he meant to Larys- a good man need not die in this damn city while Eli had a say.

* * *

Ned strode through the halls of the Red Keep, away from his daughters' rooms where the new maid had just settled in.

In all honesty, Ned had felt dizzying relief at Larys' letter- that someone remembered him in this pit. Without his wife's advice, he felt lost in this southern world. He did not know who to trust, who to watch, but Larys, Dornish as she was, had helped clear the path. Do not trust Littlefinger, she'd said, not with a fifty-foot pole. He tried to assassinate Bran. Someone is trying to spark war between Lannisters and Starks, do not fall for it. Everyone is a spy. The Queen has a lover.

All very scandalous, secrets he could never have hoped to unearth without her. How she managed to do it from leagues and leagues away, he did not know, and did not ask.

His immediate thoughts on it all had been to tell Robert, let him arrest them all and serve justice- rage that he had once looked upon these snakes with respect. But Larys had also specified that he should do nothing but leave. That was something he could not do. He couldn't leave Robert here; no matter how much he wanted to run. And Ned wasn't stupid; he could manoeuvre political waters for a while at least.

Besides Sansa was engaged to Joffrey, admittedly something he was coming to regret and he doubted the girl would leave the capital so easily. But still, even if Ned had to stay, they did not. The plan had been immaculately done- he could smell the loyalty in the air as soon as Eli Anerion walked into the room, as soon as he laid eyes on the Louella girl. Larys had friends, useful friends, and she cared enough to give him a way out, even if he did not take it.

But oh how he longed to take it. Board that ship and sail to the cold North. Cat wouldn't be there, and he felt that ache like an open wound that refused to close, but his children were in the North, and his  _home_ was in the North. That was where his duty lay, not here in this stinking pile of shit.

He made his way to the King's solar, mind whirring, and it took a moment for him to realise how many people there were, hovering like lost children. Ned had been summoned, he assumed on official business, by the King upon the return of his hunting trip.

The air was tasted wrong and he began to frown, making his way through the crowd, and the two Kinsguard, stony-faced, pushed open the doors.

He gagged upon entry and reassembled his mask as fast as he could, hurrying to Robert's bedside. And there was the source of the sweet, sickly smell. The King was open, ripped apart from collar to navel, and Ned felt his heart drop at the dead man walking.

The man tilted his head and rasped. Ned felt he was fit to burst- how could one lose so many people in such a short time?

"Ned..."

"Robert," Ned said thickly. "What is it my friend?"

Renly Baratheon watched with a slightly green face, and Maester Pycelle stood back, face lined with aged sadness.

"It was a fucking boar," Robert said, choking a laugh. "I killed the bugger though."

"Of course you did," Ned sighed, and smiled a shaky smile. "Never lost a hunt, have you?"

"No..."

A long silence, and Ned wondered in a moment of panic whether his brother in all but blood had passed.

"Watch Joffrey for me," Robert wheezed. "He's a little shit but he's my son..."

"Of course Robert."

"Thank you," Robert said, and he gathered his strength, and despite the fat spilling from his wounds, despite the stink hanging over him, for a moment, Ned saw the strong young man that used to be Robert Baratheon. "For being my brother when you didn't need to."

"You'll always be my brother," Ned managed, and felt tears prick at his eyes.

Robert smiled and fell into a deep sleep. Pycelle shuffled forward and trickled milk of the Poppy down the King's throat.

"His passing will be smooth," Pycelle reassured. "Easy."

"Dying is never easy," Ned said shortly.

He stepped back from the bed and tried to stop the world from spinning. This was so fast. One minute he was talking to his daughters', the next his best friend was dead.

A hand touched his elbow, and he jerked with a start to see the Spider with a sickly sad smile.

"My Lord," he whispered, to quiet to hear. "There is a letter from Stannis Baratheon in your rooms."

"It can wait."

"I'm afraid it can't," Varys simpered. "It concerns the late King. And as the Queen does not yet know of our King's demise, I advise you not to be here when she finds out."

Ned stiffened and moved to walk out of the room, away from the politics that pierced even the time of the dead.

But Varys the Spider was not so easily deterred, and whispered one last thing in Lord Stark's ear.

"I would take up your good-daughter's offer, my Lord. Time is running out."

* * *

Eli sat on the ships' deck, strangely lonely without Louella to tease. The Red Keep loomed in the distance, and he listened the bells toll their solemn tune, echoing across the land, with mild interest. The Dornish sailor looked up from their cards and towards there Lord for answers.

"The King is dead boys."

Eli smirked at their stifled laughs and cheers, sipping from the ale one handed to him. He toasted Fat King Robert.

The Dornish Red he had gifted the King upon entering court was unlike any other. Particularly potent, a  _favourite_ of the Martells- in fact, Prince Doran, a good friend of Efran Anerion, had requested it especially for the King.

They were, after all, Dornish.


	22. Duty

  **Duty**

Ned stared into the fire. Tears rolled down his cheeks, silent, stealthy. He didn't know what to do.  _He didn't know what to do._

Robert was dead, gone. And nothing was left of him. His sons were not his sons. They were bastards, born of incest. Queen Cersei did not simply have a lover- she fucked her  _brother_  and named their children Baratheons.

He growled in frustration and slammed his fist into the wall. What was  _wrong_ with them? What was wrong with  _this whole damn world?_

Honour was nothing here, trust was nothing, and respect was nothing. All they knew was the tantalising smell of power that was just beyond with their reach. But when they climbed the steps built on corpses and wrapped their greedy fat fingers around the crown they so lusted, they realised the gold was not gold and the rusted copper weighed heavy in their hands. So they paint it with fool's gold again and again and again. Power was but a shadow, and to touch it meant sacrificing what made you human, meant becoming a beast, for something that was not there.

Were they so blind? Did family mean nothing? Did love mean nothing? What was happiness here but dead?

How Ned hated it here, how he wished this rotten city would burn to a crisp. He would breathe in the smoke of a disease burned away; fill his lungs with the knowledge that this Andal scar on the face of Westeros was gone.

A knock on the door and he jerked from his thoughts.

"Enter."

It was the maid, Louella, white blonde hair glowing in the candle-light. She walked towards him, confidently, with a sultry sway to her hips and he wondered what she had been before she came here.

"My Lord," she said, curtseying. "What is it you shall do?"

He understood the question she really asked and sighed heavily before standing suddenly, eyes burning with solemn resolve.

"Bring my daughters to me."

She bowed and left. He had but a moment to fold Stannis' letter and tuck it into his sleeve. He would leave, his daughters first. Never would he bow to a bastard born of incest. The Lannister spawn would never touch the North.

But who would? Honour told him to sail to Dragonstone and kneel to Stannis. But something else told him to sail North and wait. Wait for what, he did not yet know.

The door opened and his daughters walked in. Arya, face long and eyes grey and sullen- she hated it here as much as he did, Ned knew. And Sansa, face appropriately sad in accordance to the King's death, but her hair was freshly combed and a pendant glittered at her neck. His heart broke to see the high cheekbones and flaming red hair, the innocent blue eyes that once belonged to another.

"Girls," he began, putting his hands on their shoulders. "Robert is dead, which means Joffrey will be King. That cannot happen."

Sansa's mouth gaped, while Arya's eyes narrowed.

"He is the Prince!" Sansa exclaimed. "He's the heir, as King Robert' son!"

"No, he is not," he sighed, taking a deep breath. "I would rather neither of you knew of this atrocity, but truth will out. Joffrey and his siblings are bastards. They are not Robert's children."

Silence followed this declaration, and he notice Arya's smug smile.

"That's a  _lie_!" Sansa cried, shoving his hand away. "He's the  _prince_. We're going to get married and I will be Queen!"

Ned felt his patience run thin. He loved Sansa to pieces, but by the Gods, she was far too southern for his tastes.

"His is not. I received a letter from Stannis Baratheon, who confirms that Jon Arryn knew also. Every Baratheon in history has had dark hair and blue eyes, but not Joffrey or Myrcella or Tommen. They are nothing like Robert, haven't you noticed? And haven't you noticed how much Cersei hated Robert too? Do not be stupid Sansa- I am your father, I would not lie to you."

Sansa fell quiet at his speech, and she saw acceptance seep into her eyes, followed by despair.

"I believe you father," Arya spoke up. "I always hated him. He's crazy."

When Sansa did not speak up in his defence, Ned knew his daughters both believed him. He took pity on the girl and kissed her forehead.

"We will return to the North," he said softly. "I will find a worthy young man, trueborn and noble, better than a thousand Joffrey's, for you to wed. But for now, we must stick together. Winter is coming, and when the cold winds blow and snow falls, the lone wolf dies and the pack survives. You must help each other- people may lie to you, may trick you, but you must never lie to each other. You are  _sisters_ ; for your mother's sake, for mine, love each other. This is a dark world, and the songs are only songs."

At his words, the two had already subconsciously shuffled closer together. The death of their mother had brought the two closer together, only to be torn apart by the mess at the Trident, with Lady's death.

"Who is the father?" Sansa asked quietly.

Ned closed his eyes for a moment.

"The Kingslayer."

The two looked up at him in disbelief that morphed into disgust at his serious face.

"Aren't you glad you don't have to marry him now?" Arya said to Sansa, nose wrinkled.

To Ned's surprise, Sansa nodded.

"You'll find me someone when we go home, won't you father?" she asked quietly. "Someone handsome and kind and chivalrous?"

Ned smiled, and it was incredible how many years slipped from his face when he did.

"Of course sweetling," he said. "Only the very best."

He looked up and beckoned to Louella, who had been watching in silence.

"You know this is Louella," he said to the confused girls. "But she isn't a maid. Larys sent her to protect you till we can go home. Do you remember her uncle is a merchant? Yes? He sent a ship to take us home- it's waiting in the docks. I need you both to pack only what you can spare, leave the rest here. Louella will take you to the ship where you will wait for me."

The two stared at him wide-eyed.

"Larys?"

"Yes," he smiled.

Ned knew the thought of Larys helping them raised their spirits.

"What about Syrio?" Arya said suddenly

He paused. Louella looked able enough, but in truth he would prefer if the Braavosi was there to protect his daughters too. The man was loyal, and Ned knew Arya would never forgive him if he left the man here.

"Only if he says yes," he decided. "But you must be fast. The Queen will no doubt want us to kneel before Joffrey as soon as she can get away with."

Arya and Sansa nodded, and though he saw the fear in their eyes, he saw the trust as well and knew they utterly and completely believed he would protect them. He felt that burden on his shoulders- but then that was what it meant to be a father.

Louella stepped forward as he stepped back, and took both the girls' hands.

"Come," she said calmly. "We must make haste."

* * *

Louella rubbed the charcoal through Sansa's hair, massaging it into her scalp. The fiery red darkened into a striking black, and Louella twisted it into a bun. Sansa watched in the mirror, and she saw a tear role down her white cheek.

"It will wash out," Louella assured her.

"I know," Sansa said quickly. "But it reminded me of mother."

Arya crept a little closer, and took Sansa's hand where she thought Louella wouldn't see. The woman smiled. She stepped back and assessed the two of them.

They wore simple brown dresses she had stolen from the maid's quarters, hair hidden beneath plain cloaks. She had even smudged dirt onto their faces to hide the pale ivory of their Northern skin that stood out in this boiling city. Reaching into her pockets, Louella pulled out two knives that she pressed into their hands.

"I hope you will not need them," she explained. "But in case you do. There are those who do not care that you are but girls. Show them what it means to be Northern, to be wolves, to be the daughters of Catelyn and Eddard Stark. Do you understand?"

Arya she was sure would not mind, and Louella was right, so she watched Sansa carefully. But it seemed the girl was intent in proving everybody wrong, and nodded firmly, although her lip quivered, and tucked it into her pocket.

"Let us go," she said firmly, eyes blazing. "Syrio Forel waits at the gates."

She pulled up her own hood and strode from the room, knowing the girls would follow. The Stark guards nodded at the door, and she knew they would protect their Lord till the last. Would they die? Who knew?

The stairs of the Tower of the Hand were steep and long, and she felt her stomach coil. This was her duty. She must trek from the Red Keep to the docks, must keep the two Stark girls safe. If she failed... The dagger was cold in her hot palm, hidden by her sleeves.

As they reached the gate of the tower in silence, she greeted Syrio Forel in relief. She did not truly know the man, but knew he was a very skilled fighter, and loyal, and she thanked the Gods there was another to protect the girls.

"Syrio!" Arya whispered excitedly.

"Quiet girl," he snapped, but without anger. "From here to the ship Syrio is your father, and the woman is your mother, understand? Both of you?

"Yes," Arya said gloomily.

"Yes, Father," Sansa corrected quickly, nudging her sister, and Louella smiled to see her wit.

"Come, quickly."

Syrio Forel took her arm like any husband might, and with his other hand held Arya's should firmly- she spied the silver flash of Needle beneath his cloak. Louella took Sansa's hand in hers and they began to walk.

They passed the Red Keep easily enough, it seemed they were not yet watching who left as well as who entered. The streets were different.

They were crowded, filled with people, more people than she had ever seen at once in her humble life in the north, and she felt the walls closing in. They shoved into her, pushed her this way and that, and she tucked Sansa beneath her arm and clung to Syrio like he was a lifeline. Not only that, but standing on the roofs were gold cloaks, staring hard at the crowd. She wondered what they were searching for. Two girls, one whore, and a swordsman? But it seemed the death of the King had sent the city into a frenzy and they were hidden in the crowd.

She risked looking behind her, and her hood fell to reveal hair the colour of wheat. Just as she pulled it up again she saw a man watching her intently, motionless in an otherwise moving crowd. Her stomach dropped.

"Syrio," she hissed, and the man flashed her a look to show he was listening. "I think a man recognised me."

"Is he following?"

Louella glanced back once more but to her dismay could not find him.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I cannot see him."

"We will break for the docks any moment," he muttered. "We will go different ways before then. No doubt they will be looking for us as a group. They will split to follow both of us, so do what you must."

"Alright," Louella stuttered.

As Syrio pulled away, she felt her courage go with him, and wrapped her arm around Sansa, holding her firmly to her side. She pushed through, elbowing her way to the side of the street, taking a short cut through an alley she knew led to the docks. This was best- none to see what might happen and time would pass before the bodies were found.

"Halt!"

Louella froze.

"Don't say a word," she hissed to Sansa. "And keep up your hood."

The girl nodded frantically and Louella turned slowly.

A gold cloak stood before her, and she wondered how much he had been paid. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that men were her area of expertise.

Shaking her hood off, hair spilling out, Louella pulled away her cloak to reveal the dress she had worn. Corset cinching her waist and breasts almost spilling from the front, she stalked forward, and the slit in the skirt revealed one milky long leg. She was satisfied to see him swallow.

"Soldier," she purred, pulling a lock of hair away from her chest. "I've always liked fighters."

His eyes locked on her chest, she ran her nail down his cheek.

"Enjoying the view?"

Louella stood close enough that her chest brushed against the plate of his armour, and she pressed herself against him. One hand crept into the front of his breeches. His breathing was ragged; his eyes dark with lust, and the evidence of her seduction was hard in her hand. She squeezed.

He groaned and she smirked, kissing the corner of his mouth. He tried to blink away his lust but her hand was busy at work.

"You were with two girls and a man," he forced out. "Who were they?"

"Why?" she chuckled. "Do you like them young? Like them with a cock?"

Something in him seemed to snap and he pressed his lips against hers, furiously, and only her years as a whore stopped her from pulling away. While he was busy, she slipped her knife from her sleeve, and just as he pulled away for air, slit his throat.

The blood soaked her through and she heard Sansa's horrified gasp. Stifling his scream with a hand, she grimaced and caught his body as he fell, lowering it slowly to the ground. Wiping her face clean with her sleeve, she pulled her cloak back on to hide the bloodstains and hurried back to Sansa, hidden in the shadows.

"B-but...W-w..."

"Hush child," Louella whispered. "Death is nothing to fear. Quick, we are almost at safety."

She wiped away the girl's tears of shock and pulled her along by the hand, gasping a sigh of relief as they emerged into the sunlight and heard the familiar sound of ships and sailors. Hurrying along, she weaved through the crowd, and a sense of desperation, of dizzying relief as she neared the ship with the cyan star. A dornishman stood before it and as soon as he saw her, sprung into action and escorted them onto the ship. No sooner had her feet hit the wooden floor when Syrio and Arya boarded too, the man covered with blood but otherwise unharmed. Sansa hurried over to her sister and they began whispered frantically to each other, no doubt discussing their respective battles.

Louella span on her heel, searching for the one person that would truly rid her of her fears. At last, she saw him, and despite herself she ran forward and jumped at him. Eli caught her and hugged her fiercely.

"You are unharmed," he whispered, cupping her face.

"I am well," she laughed. "The man I killed, not so much."

He grinned, and his eyes crinkled up and for a mad moment she wanted to kiss him senseless.

Eli stepped back and beckoned over the other three.

"Welcome aboard," he smiled. "I am Eli Anerion, the cousin of Larys."

The girls chirped their greetings, as did Syrio, but Eli was busy scanning the ship.

"Where is Lord Stark?" he said suddenly. "Where is the Hand?"

"He told us to go first, that he would join us soon enough," Louella responded. "I know not what he is doing, only that he is still in the Keep."

"Fool," Eli cursed. "Honourable fool!"

He drew himself up, and with feline grace lifted his spear.

"I will go and bring him here," he snarled. "He is severely outnumbered in this rat's nest."

"Syrio will join you."

As Louella ushered the girl's below deck, she turned to watch Eli leave, hair shining in the sun, and prayed for his safe return.


	23. Swords

**Swords**

The woman sat in her chair, eating sugared almonds from her lap. She deserved it, Lady Stark thought sourly. A treat like this was the least she should get from this stupid pregnancy.

Larys examined her ankles, swollen and red, resting on the stool before her. A sudden contraction and she hissed in agony, slamming her fist into the arm of the chair. They were getting more and more painful, as Maester Gerrard had predicted. Gods, she wished Jon was hear so she could beat him senseless for getting her with child.

But he wasn't and she sighed heavily, shoving a few more sweets in her mouth. The crystal sugar casing melted over her tongue and she moaned in satisfaction- why had she eaten anything else? Why eat meats and fowl when a world of sweetness lay at her doorstep?

It was probably to do with the fact that even the smell of lamb sent her stomach rolling.

"My Lady?"

Larys turned her head in surprise to see Nina, the meek girl's face flushed, her hair askew. She stared at her Lady with wide eyes, and Larys saw fear in them.

"What is it girl?" she said sharply.

"Wildlings, my Lady," she said at last, breathless. "They have been caught, but they killed two of our men."

Larys froze for a moment, before hurriedly shifting her feet to the floor, grunting. She beckoned for the girl.

"Help me stand," she gasped, grabbing the girl's arm.

Heaving herself to her feet, Larys adjusted her dress- a dark blue with a white fur collar- and moved slowly to the door, waddling far too much for her taste. From the corner of the room, a huge bulk shape rose from the shadows, and Ghost padded towards her with all the elegance of a beast blessed by the Gods. How she wished she could handle her own size as easily as he did.

When at last they reached the doors to the courtyard, Larys stepped away from Nina and leaned on Ghost instead, who calmly held her weight. It was acceptable to rely on a beast as magnificent as he, not so much one of her own.

The cold air was brisk and awoke the blood in her. How she loved the cold wind that stung her cheeks and whipped colour into her sallow skin. Too long she had been confined to her room before the babe arrived, and she knew it would do them both good to see the sky again.

It seemed as if the entire household had gathered in the courtyard, and they bowed to her as she walked past. Lady Stark, they murmured, and Larys knew that even if she had not ridden a stallion with her men and slain wildlings with her sword, that she had a different sort of respect, perhaps a better sort of respect.

The crowd parted and she saw the ones who waited for her. A woman, although so covered in filth and stinking furs she might have been a man, and two men, wearing unmistakeable black garb. Deserters, and she knew heads would roll that night.

They stared up at her, before their eyes slid to the huge wolf beside her.

The wildling woman's mouth dropped in shock, but the night's watch men were sneering.

"Lady Sandbitch!" one jeered, and Jory answered him with a backhand. Larys stared on impassively, hands folded before her. The scar on her temple shone silver against gold.

"You a Queen then?" the woman asked amongst the man's cursing, face bold and fearless.

"No," Larys said calmly. "I am Larys Stark, Lady of Haven and the Gift."

"You're a Stark?" the wildling asked, heavy brows raised. "Thought you'd be... paler."

The other deserter piped up, voice reedy with just passed youth, teeth black with rot.

"The cunt married the Stark bastard," he crowed. "And he's dead as dead. Not long before they cart you back south with the dog in your belly."

He spat at her feet, and Jory raised his hand. She stopped him with a look.

Lady Larys stalked forward until she was but a foot away from him. They stared up at her, kneeling in the snow.

"How old are you boy?" she taunted gently. "What did you do to get sent to the Wall? Rape your mother? Touch your sister in the wrong places? Maybe it was your brother... Did they cut it off? Are you still a man?"

His face was pale with rage, and just how she wanted, he leapt at her with a screech, hands raised like claws.

It seemed the cry was hardly out of his mouth when Ghost snarled and pounced, tearing into his body like it was a ragdoll. A hand, an arm, and the boy gurgled his agony from a red throat, drowning in his own blood. Several of the villagers screamed, but they watched with wide eyes. The wildling woman shook like a leaf, but stayed where she was, showered in blood. The deserter had pissed himself.

When the cries grew silent and the growls died, the only sound that echoed through Haven was the wet tear of meat as Ghost feasted on his kill. The glassy eyes of a boy dead stared at her. Larys stared back.

"I hear you killed two of my men," Larys said finally, gazing impassively at the others. "It seemed they were repaid with two of yours."

The deserter threw himself at her feet, face white with fear.

"My Lady-my-I do not-"

"But you are a man of the Night's Watch," she spoke over him. "And you are far from the Wall indeed. Do you know the penalty for desertion?"

He gaped.

"Death," she whispered, smiling softly. "So you will excuse me if I ask for your final words."

A nod to Jory and he unsheathed his sword, sending one of his men to fetch the block. The deserter began to panic, and she marvelled at the difference between the cocksure son of a bitch and the snivelling excuse of a man before her.

"In the name of Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Larys Stark, Lady of the Gift, sentence you to die."

Her voice rang clear across the courtyard, her chin high and eyes blazing and the small folk stared in awe.

"Fuck you!" the deserter spat, and although the smell of piss was still strong, he seemed to have regained his courage in the face of imminent death. "You whore! I'll-"

But then his head was on the block, and with a flash of silver, it rolled before he could voice his threat. It landed at her feet, blood spurting, face twitching still. She looked down at it with dead eyes. Ghost looked up from his meal for a long moment, before returning to it with indifference.

Larys turned to the wildling woman.

"Kneel and I will have mercy," she said. "You will have work, and if you abide by our laws, I will find a home for you. Even a husband, should you so wish."

"I don't want no husband," she began, eyes wary. "And I ain't some kneeler..."

"No, but you are alive, so if you wish to stay that way I suggest you revaluate," Larys retorted.

A moment of tension.

"Alright," the wildling said finally. "I'll kneel."

Larys nodded firmly.

"You will be cleaned and given new clothes," she said, and suddenly Larys felt exhausted. "I cannot have my hold infested with fleas. What is your name?"

The two women stared at each other for a moment, and bold met bold, brave met brave, strong met strong.

"Osha, milady."

* * *

Eli braced himself on the rocks, the waves roaring beneath him. Another ledge and he planted his foot on it slowly, carefully, lest it be false. He looked up, never down, and saw the wall was just within his reach.

"Syrio will go first," the Braavosi whispered. "Silent as a mouse, swift as a bird, deadly as a cobra..."

Eli ignored the eccentric's mantra and readied himself to fight. Syrio leapt of the wall like a shadow, and he saw the dark shapes fall before they could scream. He counted to ten before joining the fray.

Dead bodies littered the floor and Syrio stood in the centre, sheathing his silver sword. Impressed by the man's skill, Eli lifted his own spear, comforted by the weight of it.

They crept through the keep, sticking to high vantage points, throwing the corpses into the sea before they could be seen. At last they reached the Tower of the Hand, and at its door, they saw two bodies in grey.

"We are late," Syrio murmured.

Eli grimaced, and stepped through the door, over countless Stark men. One had his head crushed like a melon- he felt dread settle in his stomach like a stone. Blood seeped through his boots.

Somewhere, above him, he heard shouts. Sharing a look with Syrio, he readied his weapons and leapt up the stairs.

Storming into the solar he once talked so amicably with Lord Stark in, Eli attacked before anyone could realise. A man in red fell to his spear and the second turned in shock. Parrying a shoddy swing, Eli slit his throat, revelling in the hot spray of blood on his face. Taking in the scene, he saw Eddard fighting fiercely with a greatsword, the legendary Ice he realise, against a man that was bigger than anyone Eli had seen. A monster, a beast, and Eli felt rage grow hot and boiling within him at the sight.

The Mountain that Rides. Gregor Clegane. Murder of women and slayer of children.

Syrio fought the remainder of the men in the room, dispatching them with ease, but there were many. As Eli joined, he saw from the corner of his eye Eddard glance over in surprise and relief, and in that one moment, a sword fell and blood spilled. The Hand staggered back, holding his bleeding shoulder and Eli leapt forward, twirling his spear. He landed a hit in the Mountain's undefended underarm and grinned feral at his roar.

"Ser Gregor," Eli purred. "So good to see you."

Eli was glad he looked so obviously Dornish, the hair, the colouring, the robes and spear, but most of all, was glad his eyes were the violet of his Valyrian ancestry. Thank you Grand-father, he thought as Clegane blanched at eyes he had not seen the like of in over a decade.

But the shock did not last long, and the knight swung his great big beast of a sword, slowly, but with such power that when Eli danced out of the way, it crashed into the floor in a storm of splinters. So the spar of a lifetime began, and it was only Eli's spear and speed that kept the monster at bay.

"I am a great admirer of yours," Eli laughed, teeth flashing. "How you rape widows and murder children. What a warrior you are ser Gregor!"

The Mountain snarled.

He had known Elia Martell once- as a boy, he'd thought she was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. Kind and gentle, not like Larys, who was fierce and brave, but so good that you couldn't help but love her. Everyone did, but it was the one that hated her that was her downfall.

The whistle of sword through air and Eli ducked, twisting his spear into the man's arm. Every drop of blood that was not his was a victory.

More so, Eli remembered his own siblings, the little girl and boy, the children of his father from his second wife. Eli had always thought he would be an only child, had thought he would resent his siblings when they came. But came they did and he found it impossible to hate such innocence and joy. Elia and Elmar, such beautiful, pure, innocent children, that chased him through the halls and climbed into his bed on stormy nights, and he felt his hate for Gregor Clegane grow tenfold. Had Rhaenys and Aegon been like that? Children in every sense of the word?

He saw Syrio approach from the corner of his eye, but shook his head, dodging another blow, nodding to the wounded Lord Stark. This was his fight, a fight for Dorne, for justice.

The Mountain was so strong he could not even attempt to parry, only dodge and pray he did not tire. He did not think he would- the injustice of it all had set his blood aflame. But the Mountain was beginning to slow, and Eli pressed his attack. Now was his chance- he could not hesitate, he could not give the beast a moment to recuperate.

"I heard you burned your brother's face," Eli taunted. "Were you tired of being the ugly beast of the family? I must say, with my most sincere apology, that you have failed!"

"Bastard!" Gregor boomed, but his breathing was heavy, and in his rage he lifted his sword a little too high, and his chest plate shifted.

Without pausing to think, Eli plunged his spear deep into the Mountain's side, face splitting into a grin. He did not see the sword as it swung, did not see the victory in Gregor Clegane's dying eyes as all went black.

* * *

Their eyes were heavy on him, fearful, but Jon did not care. What was fear, now? What was pain when he had suffered it most?

Parting like a river before him, he walked, and at the end was a tent of goatskin. He did not pause to ask entry, did not care if Mance Rayder was fucking his wife, cared only that an army of wildlings meant nothing but woe for the living.

Jon was followed by another, short and white-haired, face fierce but at the same time something like fear stirred within them, and he kept away- he called himself Tormund Giantsbane, and oh how Jon had laughed.

The interior was simple, rough, with only a wooden table and cot. At the table sat a man, quite short in truth, and weedy looking, but his eyes danced with intelligence and Jon knew not to underestimate him.

"Jon Ice Eyes," the man said quietly, rising. "We have heard of you. Some say you are cursed, some say you are a demon, the Night King reborn."

Jon only stared- gods how he hated that name.

"I admit, I fear you," Mance said. "You have the look of a man who's seen everything and feels nothing."

_I feel it all_ , Jon thought despairingly.  _I feel the warmth rolling off all of you in waves and the water that turns to ice beneath my fingers._

"I come to warn you."

Mance's eyes narrowed and he tilted up his chin. At that moment, Jon knew why the wildlings called him King.

"You cannot fight the Night's Watch."

"Why?" Mance said sharply. "I did not think you were a crow."

"You will lose. You will die. And every dead man, woman and child will rise again to show you the true meaning of Winter. Do not make that mistake Mance Rayder."

Even Jon felt the foreboding in his words and shuddered internally. When had it all gone to shit?

Mance walked closer until there was hardly a hand between them- Jon looked down at him.

"I know of the Others," he said stonily. "How else could I have united every warring clan of my people? Not for gold or glory, not for a good fight and better fuck, no. For life, for our children, for a better future south of the Wall."

"You will not find it," Jon snapped, and his patience grew thin. "Not through war and not through blood. All you will do is lead your people to ruin and feed the army of the dead."

"Then what do you suggest I do?" Mance hissed.

Jon paused, staring into the fire.

"I am Jon Stark, Lord of the Gift," he said finally, and a little of his old self returned. "If you wish for a future without bloodshed, you will kneel and abide by my laws. I will arrange for your passage South."

Mance stared wide eyed- a Stark?

"But any man that rapes, that thief, that plunders; I will string them up and flay them alive. Do not betray my trust Mance Rayder. I will know when you decide."

With that, Jon left the room, uncaring for the stunned man he left behind, only conscious of the fact that every word felt like a lie on his tongue.

The winds were cold but he was colder, and the wildling camp, sprawling like a scar on the land, grew small on the horizon. He climbed and climbed, knowing not where he went. His heart was heavy to think of returning to the Children, to hear them say the words that would seal his fate. Jon could not bear to hear he would never fulfil his promise to Larys. Not yet.

Stronger the storm grew, until he could hardly see past the snow. Fear grew strong in him, rooting itself deep like a weed, and bloomed. He had been in a storm like this once.

Hair streaming behind him, he climbed upon the peak, stood steady in the wind. And beneath him, he saw a valley. And in that valley he saw death. Thousands of corpses, standing, motionless, silent. The army of the dead.

_Gaze too long into the Abyss, and the Abyss will gaze back into you._


	24. Pain

**Pain**

"Why did you cross the Wall?"

Osha sat opposite Larys in her solar, staring about the room in open curiosity. She looked far better when cleaned and well-clothed. Older too.

"Wanted to see your kneeler castles," the wildling shrugged.

"Do not play games with me," Larys snapped, impatient. "What are you fleeing?"

Osha looked up with alert eyes.

"Who said I was running away?"

Larys assessed her, and remembered Jon, his eyes, his words.

"There is much to flee north of the Wall," Larys said levelly. "There is no shame in that."

Wary, Osha's lips were clamped shut in a white line.

"Do you believe in the Old Gods  _milady_?" she sneered.

The voices she had long since learned to ignore babbled far away, and Larys held back a laugh.

"Oh yes," she smiled. "It is hard to find another more pious than me."

"And the Others?"

Here Larys paused, thinking carefully on what to say.

"Is that what you run from Osha?" Larys said softly, leaning forward. "White-walkers? The Others? The Undead?"

Something in Lady Stark's words, in the steadiness of her hands, the clear honesty of her eyes, made Osha fall quiet. No words were needed- between them, they knew. Osha's eyes put into meaning what her lips never could.

"Will you serve me?" Larys said, leaning back. "I am nearing my labour. A strong woman like yourself would not be misplaced in this household."

Osha eyed her, and though the offer was tempting, something itched.

"What did the crow say about your husband?" she asked suspiciously. "He dead?"

Larys froze for a moment, before smiling an immaculate, closed mouth smile.

"My Husband," Larys said calmly, and hid her shaking hands in her lap. "Has gone missing beyond the Wall. He may well be dead. But I believe he will return to me... Fear not. Lord Jon is a kinder man than any I have known. A nobler man."

"And you rule while he is gone?"

"Yes," Larys said, and a touch of her old defiance lifted her chin.

Osha did not speak, did not open her mouth. To her, she who knew the lands of the wild North better than her own hands, Lord Jon Stark was dead. And his wife was more than just a wife, and Osha began to realise what she had heard of the South did not ring true. Lady Stark was strong, and brave, and so composed that a storm could rack through Haven and her smile would not slide an inch. Was this not perfect? A woman, willing to clothe and feed her, no Lord to obey and serve, only a mother with child. Osha could fight men, could control them, but she did not come South to suffer more. Had the Gods blessed her? Given her something where they had taken him?

"Are all southern women like you?" Osha asked suddenly, and to her surprise, Lady Larys began to laugh.

"Oh no," she chuckled. "Not at all."

* * *

Louella ran, eyes wide with fear. Her heart thumped a frantic rhythm against her ribs, her hands slick with sweat.

Shouts. Pounding feet. Cries of hold hold.

She broke onto deck and the sun blinded her- for a moment all was white, as if all the impurity of the world was burned away. And then there was a cart, and children, Fleabottom children, pulled away a sheet and two bodies lay silent, side by side. One stirred, dark of hair and pale of face, but for Louella a dragon would not tear her eyes from  _him_.

The wood beat hollow beneath her feet; she did not breathe until her fingers felt the cold skin beneath her palm.

His face, once so warm, in colour, in expression, was slack and grey, the gold leached from his skin like blood from an open wound. What was left was marble, steel grey, and she wondered at the sheer strength of it even now.

Caged eyes, shy petals hiding nectar of the Gods. The gold of him, the diamond, hidden beneath callous, and only when the Stranger waited with open arms did she see his shine. Eli Anerion- a fighter, a lover, a hedonistic fool.

He was the whoremonger and she was the whore. Was it so wicked that she loved him?

* * *

Sickness did not bother her any longer. They left her alone, by his side. Lord Stark commanded the ship now, in Eli's absence. He had healed easily enough, though the word had torn through the muscles of his left shoulder, and the ship healer said he would need to learn to fight one-handed. But united with his children and away from the cesspit of a capital, he was healthy.

According to Syrio, a spider,  _the_ Spider, had helped him carry Eli and Lord Stark, sending his birds as escorts. She was sure Lord Stark and Lady Larys would bow their heads together and discuss the politics behind it in whispers, but Louella was a simple woman. She had had enough of intrigue, enough of whoredom, of selling herself and selling others. Of flashing her hair and her teeth, pushing out her chest and kissing wormy lips.

None would pleasure her like him, none would look at her like him, and none would  _taste_ like him. So what was the point of trying?

Louella leaned her head against the wall, and the steady rocking of the ship lulled her when once it had sickened her. Her eyes ran unrestrained over his sleeping face, again and again. Some of the colour had returned, and where he had been a statue, now he was a man. There had been a time when it had not been so, when fever had struck.

Dark days. Tortured days. Dead days.

But time had passed, and though the Stranger had come so close, she knew Eli would awaken. They were almost at Sunspear after all.

Sunspear. Dorne. Who had known when the met Eli at White Harbour she would follow him all the way to his homeland? This was the path chosen by her Lady- unpredictable, a path unwatched, a move unmediated. Here Lord Stark could meet with the Martells, could tell them the truth of the Lannister bastards. Politics. Intrigue.

And when Eli was well enough, he would stride through the halls of the Old Palace, and at the feet of the ever grieving brothers, he would place a head. And Princes Martell would honour him for avenging a woman wrongly dead.

That was what they all said. What they all expected. Louella didn't care. She could not even bare to look in the bag. Syrio had shown her it on the first night, when her mind was scattered and heart heavy beneath love freshly realised, and to see that furious, ugly face was too much. Only for a moment could she meet the eyes of the Mountain, before cowardice swamped her and she turned her head. Those cold dead eyes had seen too much.

Coughing. She jerked and stared wide-eyed as lilac eyes blinked open. Hot tears streamed to see their colour.

Confused, Eli tilted his head and looked at her. He went to speak, but only croaked, and she trickled the water down his throat, weeping as he moved,  _finally_.

"Why the tears?" Eli whispered, voice raw, but he smiled, and in his eyes she saw love returned.

How could she have doubted him? Leaning forward, Louella pressed her forehead against his, flushing red with adoration when he kissed away her tears.

"I love you," she whispered.

There was nothing else to say, nothing that could escape the shadow of this great clarity. His eyes lit up, and his dimples deepened as Eli beamed.

"I love you too."

Laughing and sobbing, she pressed her lips against his, and, for once, gave in.

* * *

The pain. Gods the pain.

Like the Stranger ran his cold fingers down her spine, held, clenched, twisted. From her back, to her abdomen, to her legs, to her chest. Agony.

"My Lady!"

Through a haze, she saw Nina, felt the sticky wetness between her thighs, saw Maester Gerrard hurry in. Then, as suddenly as it came, the pain passed, and like a flash of sun behind dark storm clouds, she knew.

"He comes. My son comes."

"The Lady is in labour! The child comes!"

She heard their cries ring through the halls, heard the answering shouts, then nothing. Strong arms lifted her, babbling, whimpering, crying in fear.

"Jon?" she gasped.

"No," Jory murmured, and moved the hair from her sweat-drenched forehead.

" _Jon!"_ she screeched, arching her back.

The scream was haunting, and the buzzing castle fell silent. The women, even the men, they knew labour. Had heard its screams. So why did this sound so much worse?

The sounds of her torture echoed, partnered with the muttered prayer of Nina the maid, and that was when Ghost joined. Howls, screams, danced a dark dance in the winter night.

A bed. Hands, so many hands. Larys had never felt such pain. Had never known the meaning of the word. She  _felt_ him, felt her son pushing, clawing, tearing at her insides.

Larys shrieked in agony, screamed for Jon. Why wasn't he here?  _Why wasn't he here?_

* * *

Jon stood silent. The tree loomed over him, white and red, mocking him. He laughed, suddenly. The things he had seen, he had lost count. Nothing shocked him anymore.

Death, so much death- he saw it all. The ghosts, the wights, the frozen bodies. What was life when all he could see was its end?

"Will you not enter, Jon Ice Eyes?"

He knew that voice- Leaf- and he cursed every God, every Child, for damning him so. But his feet began to move, and then he was stooping, and then he was in.

"Jon..."

He opened his eyes, but they were filled with scorn, settling on the man that was not a man. Twisted, corrupted, the Gods grew a Weirwood root through one eye, and so the Three Eyed Raven was chained, locked to his post.

"I know what you have seen."

"Yes..." Jon murmured. "I see much. I stand, I watch. I look upon the dead whose fates are beyond me, I see corpses whose purpose is unknown to me. Why? Why do I see so much and do so little?"

The Children of the Forest burrowed into the corner of his vision, close yet far, staring at him from behind gnarled root.

Jon received no answer, only silence, so he filled it with thoughts he had kept hidden for so long.

"Why are the Gods so cruel? Why do they curse me so? I am kept from my wife, my child, my family and  _home._ People rely on me, and now more than ever. Thousands will die if I cannot give the wildlings another option,  _but I can do nothing if I am here!_

"Did you see Larys? Did you see her tears? Did you feel her pain, my pain? Did you see how she grows with child? Did you hear my promise? Did you?"

"Yes."

"THEN GIVE ME A DAMN ANSWER!"

His roar echoed through the cavern, and his fury was never-ending, again and again in his ears.

"You will not like what I tell you."

The Children had crept closer, and Jon felt he might suffocate, that he might drown in the futility of it all.

"It cannot be worse than this," he said, and his voice was fierce.

"There is a way," the Three Eyed Raven croaked.

Jon sagged with relief, stepping forward, too filled with the future to be angry that a way out had been held from him, to wonder why.

"Thank the Gods," he gasped. "What is it?"

"A life for a life, my Lord," the Three Eyed Raven said strongly. "A promise for a promise."

"What must I do?" Jon asked, and he did not think of the possibilities, thought only of Larys and their child.

"You will know," he intoned, sad for a reason Jon did not yet understand. "When the time comes, you will know... What say you?"

Jon stared at him, eyes wide, filled with bated breath. The Children had come so close he could feel the rush of their breath on his arms. Why would he say no? Larys and their child came first.

"Yes," he burst out. "I'll do it. Whatever it is, whenever it comes, I'll do it. So long as I can see her again, I'll do anything."

"Anything?"

The old man's voice was heavy with despair.

"Anything."

Before he could protest, could think, hands forced him to his knees, pulled and cut at his hair, hands soft and fleeting and yet so rough.

Leaf started a fire before him, and he watched with Targaryen eyes as at it roared to life, as it burned the wood it rested on. And as they crouched around it, as she burnt a lock of his black hair, they began to whisper. Louder and louder, until all Jon could hear was the price of a cursed life.

" _When the willows part_

_When the water runs dry_

_And the star of a bleeding heart_

_Stains red the sky_

_The maiden will sing_

_And a coin of two sides_

_Together will burn_

_Only one will survive_

_And the Fathers weep for their Sons."_

* * *

It was like the sea. It came in waves, crashing forth in fury unmeasured, pulling back to reveal the sands. But the agony never strayed for long, and Lady Stark's voice was hoarse from screaming.

"Keep pushing, my Lady!" Gerrard cried, hands stained with blood. "The babe is crowning! I can see the head!"

What else would she do? Larys pushed, pushed with all she had in her, but it was like catching smoke with her bare hands. No relief came, but she did what she was told because there was nothing else she could do.

"Well done, my Lady!"

A rush of fluids and the Maester held a squalling bundle in his arms.

There is nothing quite like the first cry of a newborn. When it is pulled from its mother, breathes its first air, opens its mouth and screeches- nothing is quite so beautiful as that. It sent such power through Larys-  _she_ had created that- and suddenly she loved a child she had not seen, and with such ferocity she knew not what to do.

Cheering, a servant woman cut the babe's chord, the Maester sighing in relief, when the child's screams were drowned out by his mother's.

"What's happening?" the woman asked, panicked.

The Maester, sweat dripping down his forehead, paled, set his face firmly.

"Twins, my Lady!" he said loudly. "You must push once more."

Tears poured down her cheeks, mixing with sweat in a salty river. She could not comprehend, only obeyed his command with all that was left within her. That feeling again, a giant hand crushing her abdomen, and she wept in pure desperation. Would it never end?

"Almost there! Keep going!"

A scream that died into silence, and the Maester pulled her second child from her. But unlike the first, this one did not cry. Where every child ever born had wept, her babe was silent. She stirred from her pain-filled haze, panic sparking in the primal, instinctual part of her.

"What's wrong?" she roused. "Why is there no crying?"

"Do not worry," the Maester reassured, although it was coloured with uneasiness. "He is entirely healthy."

"He?" she whispered.

"Two beautiful, strong sons, my Lady."

Life returned to her, and pushed herself up, aching in every part of her body, but the pain died when she caught sight of the maid holding her sons to her chest. Slowly and gently, the Maester put her firstborn in her arms, tending to her second.

Fresh tears fell at the sight of him. Skin red, mouth puckered, eyes a confused blue, and he might have looked like any other babe. But she saw the shock of black hair and the tiny button nose, so like hers, and the cream skin beneath the ruddiness, and she understood what it meant to be a mother. To have a child that was half-her and half-Jon.

"So Stark," she murmured, and though she was exhausted, drenched with sweat and tears, her smile was beautiful. "Just like Jon..."

"My Lady?"

Larys looked up to see the bundle in Gerrard's arms, and reluctantly handed her firstborn to a maid, reaching out for her second son.

Her breath halted within her at the sight of him. Skin so pale it was almost translucent, hair white as snow, and even now, moments after birth, his eyes were a shocking violet. Targaryen, so dragon she felt fear claw at her throat. They would know- surely someone would realise? It was so  _obvious_.

But then she remembered her grand-father was Lyseni and relaxed a little, allowed herself to dote on her son, to marvel at his beauty.

"He looks so like his Grand-father," she cooed, noting the relief on Gerrard's face. "All Valyrian."

Her first-born began to cry, loud bawling from strong lungs, and she could do nothing but beam, glowing with motherhood.  _Twins_.

"He is hungry, my Lady," said the Maester. "If you wish, I can call for the wet nurse."

"No," Larys said fiercely, taking her son. "Nobody will feed my sons but their mother."

He latched on, and she wondered at the sheer magic of it. That she had made two beautiful, living babes, that she could feed them from her body. Was there anything more pure than this?

The room calmed as her firstborn fed, and her second son, who had yet to do anything but gurgle, stared up at her with wide eyes. She felt her heart fill with adoration at the sight, at the starfish hands that reached for her. Nina crept closer, and Larys smiled at the girl.

"They are beautiful, my Lady," the maid whispered, blushing. "You are very lucky."

"I am," Larys beamed, holding her sons close. "They are two sides of a coin, are they not?"


End file.
